


Of Wolf and Man

by IamShadow21, kath_ballantyne



Series: Abandoned, Unfinished and Unpublished Potter Works [1]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Abandoned Work - Unfinished and Discontinued, Adolescent Sexuality, Angst, Book 3: Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban, Canon Compliant, Enforced Solitude, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Hogwarts, Hogwarts Era, Hogwarts Third Year, Hurt No Comfort, Incomplete, M/M, MWPP Era, Melancholy, One of My Favorites, POV First Person, POV Remus Lupin, Quidditch, alternate viewpoint
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2007-10-24
Updated: 2008-05-07
Packaged: 2018-01-07 06:52:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 30,987
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1116814
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/IamShadow21/pseuds/IamShadow21, https://archiveofourown.org/users/kath_ballantyne/pseuds/kath_ballantyne
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A Remus-centric exploration of canon events.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue: Watching, Waiting, Touching

**Author's Note:**

> This was the first long, chaptered fic I wrote for Potter fandom, and I still love it. The high rating is purely for the Marauder's Era prologue, and for the occasional flashback or dream sequence. These are easily skippable, but I feel they add something to the narrative. The rest is pretty much gen and was carefully constructed to follow and compliment Prisoner of Azkaban canon. I followed the book religiously. I studied moon cycle charts. I did all my homework - and then I hit the Shrieking Shack, which contains some twenty or thirty pages of solid dialogue and exposition, and I couldn't figure out how to truncate that without taking away from the significance of Remus and Sirius's first meeting in twelve years, and their confrontation of their former friend, Peter, and their former and current adversary, Severus Snape. So, unfinished it remains, but no less loved by me, and I have received some very lovely comments from people over the years who really appreciated what I tried to do and loved it for what it added to the canon.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Remus watches Sirius who watches Remus.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Though this part is Marauder era, the majority of this fic will parallel PoA (though there will be flashbacks). That means I am INSANE enough to have started a project that must believably dovetail neatly with canon. Because I must to make it plausible, when necessary I will in future be using dialogue from the book worked in. When I do, it will be disclaimered and credited to the book in question and JKR in this Author's Note section.
> 
> Beta by kath_ballantyne and prydonia.

I used to watch him. It became something of a habit, an addiction. I was never like Peter was when he watched James - fawning, adoring, subservient. I was covert. I'd read my book, idly turning a page now and then, and glance over the edge. If he caught me at it, I'd return his gaze calmly, with a sarcastic twist of my lips and a quirk of an eyebrow, even if my heart did thump a little louder and something hot pooled deep in my abdomen.

There was something so intoxicating about the way he moved, the way his presence filled a space. At rest, he was like a great cat; languid, arrogant, beautifully nonchalant. Seemingly unaware of his own magnetism. He was never completely still. Even if his tapping feet or long, tapering fingers were quiet, his eyes never stopped. They flicked everywhere, taking in every detail of his surroundings. There was always that sense of charged energy about him, like a coiled spring, that would send him shooting from his chair with some wild scheme or heist that we simply _must_ try. 

In motion, he had a natural, aristocratic poise. No one seeing him walk could be in doubt of his heritage, his breeding, even if he did despise his clan. Perhaps even this rebellion made him _more_ inclined to show it. It was a form of defiance. Just because he was a cuckoo in the family nest didn't mean he wasn't going to flaunt what his Pureblood birth and wealth had graced him with. In full stride in the corridors, people stepped aside automatically for him, without even questioning their deference. He had a rooster's strut, made all the more impressive by his charming smile. He was so casually elegant. Even on that night in the Shrieking Shack when we uncovered Peter after all those years of lies. He was filthy and skeletal, dressed in rags and wild in the eyes. And yet despite all this, there was one shining moment when he flicked his matted hair back in an unconscious mannerism so familiar, that he could have been sixteen again, dressed in silk and satin.

He flirted with everybody, and I have to think he had to be aware of at least some of it. I observed once, with something like awe, as he turned that charm on McGonagall. We had been hauled into that office of hers yet again, after another of our 'just a lark' adventures went south. She was revving up to maximum anger and indignation mode when he leaned forward just a little, murmured something I didn't catch which I assume was some sort of apology, and let the smile slowly blossom on his face. The severe lines around her eyes and mouth softened, and a few minutes later we were all trooping out with nothing more than a detention and a stern reprimand, when I was certain we were looking at an order of suspension. Our rap sheet was rather substantial, after all. He didn't always win us a reprieve, but I think he was probably the reason we didn't all get expelled before we even sat our OWLs. Even after that nasty business with Snape.

His talent for manipulation was superb, and his sense for mayhem inspired. Though he would have attacked them had anyone suggested it, it was obvious that his skills confirmed his Slytherin ancestry. I think I willingly blinded myself to the cruelty in some of his pranks in the early years of our friendship. The things he did, that in retrospect were clearly bullying. The pleasure he took in other people's pain at times. The frequent justification that it was just a 'joke', and a 'laugh', even though it was distinctly unfunny for those at the brunt of it. James reined him in occasionally, but other times he was just as bad. And I was a follower, not a leader.

James was particularly blind when it came to Snape. He resented Lily's friendship with him, and I couldn't say that I blamed James for that. Snape was universally disliked by everyone else except some members of his own house. He was abrasive, cruel and underhanded. And he seemed to know just how much his friendship with Lily got under James's skin, and took the opportunity to rub it in when he could. Sirius, on the other hand, needed no more reason than the fact that Snape represented for him everything he loathed about his family and Slytherins in general. That James hated him too, and that Snape gave as good as he got only sweetened the animosity for Sirius. James and Sirius egged each other on, and each new revenge was plotted with relish. Things eventually came to a very unpleasant crescendo.

Of course, I didn't know about it at the time. I was primal, hairy and probably chewing one of my own limbs in frustration at being contained when every instinct was telling me to _run, hunt, feed_. That moon had been a bad one. I emerged not long before dawn; exhausted, aching and battered. I had evidently been throwing my own body at the walls in an effort to break free. Not the first time, nor the last. I slipped into the dormitory to find a wakeful and tense atmosphere. James was pale as milk, and Peter showed signs of recent tears. Sirius was nowhere to be seen. 

My stomach lurched with a cold, sick feeling. My first thoughts were of illness, injury, some calamity... then James began to speak. Something began a slow burn inside of me, which quickly became incandescent. A short while later I came back to myself and James was holding me firmly, speaking to me softly, the cadence of his voice rising and falling. His lip was bleeding, and his glasses bent and misshapen. From the sharp throb in my fist I knew, disconnectedly, that I had been the one to hit him, probably more than once, if the swelling blush on one cheekbone was any indication. Fresh blood in my own mouth made me wonder if he'd hit me back, until I realised that I was biting my cheek, grinding it between my teeth. I was sobbing; gasping great gulps of air in hiccupping spasms. Completely wrung out from the Change, from the _betrayal_ , I lay in James's arms and moaned. I mourned.

When he returned after his suspension, I wouldn't speak to him or look at him for weeks. He pleaded, he cajoled, he joked, he got angry, he tried to placate me. I could tell that he was genuine, but at the same time that he had no comprehension of what he had done. I was silent. He fumed about me "punishing him". Peter jumped at loud noises. James tried to be friends with both of us, and was failing, his eyes becoming shadowed. James had also been quieter since the incident, his usual happy-go-lucky attitude subdued. 

In the end, there was no big scene, no great reconciliation. He sat down opposite me one day in the library and said nothing, just watched me with his dark, liquid eyes. Just waited. I let him wait.

"I don't forgive you for what you did," I said at length, quietly, turning another page. He looked down at his hands, interlacing them more tightly. I continued unmercifully, "I could have killed him. Or _infected_ him. You have no idea what that feels like to me. You can't possibly. So don't say you do, and don't tell me it was just a joke. I would have thought that seeing what I go through for years, you might have worked out that it's not something I'd inflict on my worst enemy, let alone a little toe rag like Snape." I paused and swallowed, lowering my book. "It may not have been personal to _you_ , but it was personal to _me_ , and I had no choice in it." He looked up, and I let him see the depths of the pain in my eyes. He fidgeted, deeply uncomfortable.

"I'm sorry," he murmured. It was a real apology, of course, but I steeled myself.

"I know. But I still won't forgive you. If you can deal with that, then we can be friends. If you can't, I don't need you." Something inside me screamed at my own words; and shrivelled and died in the long silence that stretched out between us. 

"Okay," he said eventually, so quietly I could hardly hear him. I nodded once, and picked up my book. 

It took a long time for the ease to come back into our friendship, and even then, something had changed. I kept catching him watching me; in class, in the dorm, in the Common Room while I was studying in front of the fire. It was like he was memorising me, all the details, as carefully as he mapped his surroundings. It was unnerving, and slightly exhilarating. To look up at an odd moment and to catch his deep, intense gaze studying me, savouring my form, would bring a rush of blood to my head at times that made my ears ring. I tried not to dwell on it. After all, he was a terrible flirt and just about every girl in the school except the brilliantly stubborn and vivacious Lily Evans was head over heels for him. I think the only reason Sirius didn't pursue Lily out of sheer frustration at not winning her automatically, was out of respect for the torch James had carried for her since the First Year. 

As always, he dated; casually, habitually. And somehow seemed to stay on good terms with his "exes". At least, good enough terms for them to giggle when he smiled at them across the table in the Great Hall. He was a bad boy, a clown, a rebel. He was handsome and, completely unintentionally, an incredibly sexual being. He seemed to ooze it from his very skin. He got the furthest with a girl much sooner than any of the rest of us did. "Getting with" Sirius Black seemed to be on the to-do list of every girl at school old enough to wear a bra. And of course, being the seventies, not all the girls were even wearing bras to begin with - a trend started by some of the Muggleborn girls with a casual interest in feminism. They seemed to fall over themselves to neck with him behind the Quidditch sheds, remove their blouse in a deserted classroom, give him a hurried hand job in a broom cupboard, or rendezvous with him late at night in the Common Room for things he related back to us in explicit detail in the early hours of the morning. These stories always made me twitchy and incredibly horny. Though I wasn't alone in this, if the muffled noises around me were any indication, when the four of us decided it was time for "sleep".

It seemed terribly infantile to develop a crush on him. I found myself wakeful at nights. I watched his form, silhouetted against the window, his face young and angelic in sleep. An exquisite, unbearable pulse beat within me then that I could only satisfy in silent, frantic self-pleasure. I drew the line, though. I made a firm commitment with myself that the day I giggled coyly at him when he looked at me was the day I would take a swan dive off the Astronomy Tower. 

I kept my feelings and thoughts tightly under wraps, as much as I could. It was harder the closer it was to the full moon. Sitting in a classroom, even Potions with its distracting fug of fumes and vapours, I could hear his breathing and the steady throbbing of his heart nearby. When he came into the dorm after one of his "assignations", or in the dark when all the others were asleep and he was touching himself, I could smell the heady musk of sex radiating from him like a wave of heat. And if he forgot to cast a privacy charm, I could hear every shuddering breath, every gasp, every whimper, as though he was lying right next to me, close enough to touch. 

I started having icy showers. Even then, sometimes the shock of the water couldn't relieve the ache. Freezing cold showers, twice a day. Early in the morning, and late at night, after most people had gone to bed and I could lock the door and jerk off desperately in private, even as the water raised goose bumps on my skin. I had to be going mad.

Then one night, not long before my next confinement, I opened the bathroom door, towel and toothbrush in hand, to realise that it wasn't empty. Someone was in the showers already, water running and steam misting the air. The cubicle door was open, and I could see the naked figure standing under the flow, one hand braced against the wall, the other slowly stroking himself. The door behind me swung shut again with an audible click.

The moment seemed to be passing in slow motion, like a horrible accident. The click of the door. Sirius slowly turning, still holding himself, to see me, standing there, holding my towel and toothbrush, with a blatantly obvious erection, watching him masturbating. I was aware that my mouth had dropped open. I tried to tell my brain to shut it, but the connection between thought and action seemed to be broken. My eyes met his, the black depths unreadable, and I flushed with heat; embarrassment and arousal forming a potent cocktail. I couldn't seem to break his gaze; it held me, as though I were in a Body Bind. He seemed to be studying me again, and the moment dragged out. Then slowly, almost lazily, he stroked the length of himself, from root to tip, twice, his eyes never leaving mine. 

My knees became watery and I heard myself moan. My pulse was so loud in my ears I couldn't think, and the smell of sex from him was so strong I could taste it on my tongue with every breath. His eyes darkened, and I waited for him to shout at me and tell me to get out. It didn't happen. Instead, he swiftly picked up his wand and pointed it at the door, quietly incanting a locking charm and a privacy charm, dropping it back onto his pile of clothes when he was done. Then he beckoned to me, murmuring, "Come here."

It seemed to take an age for my clumsy feet to move, but they did. I was suddenly standing right there, in front of him, watching as he took my towel and toothbrush and threw them to one side. 

"You've been watching me." It wasn't a question.

I swallowed, my mouth drier than parchment. "Yes," I agreed, since there was obviously no way of denying it, given the current situation below my belt. The insanity of the scene must have made me somehow bold, because I heard myself adding, "You've been watching me, too."

A small smile quirked his lips and he inclined his head just a fraction in agreement. He seemed calm, but I could hear his heart thudding as fast as my own, smell the fear mixed with the arousal in his scent. Somehow that was headier than the fact that he was there, naked, in front of me with his own erect cock inches from my own. And so I kissed him. 

The first contact was gentle, but it quickly turned into a kind of devouring, his lips mashed against my own, hungrily kissing me back. I felt him hastily fumbling with my clothes, as I twined my fingers in his wet hair, stroking the nape of his neck. We wrestled awkwardly with my shirt, determinedly trying not to break the kiss, as though it was the oxygen we needed to breathe. When it was off, and his fingers trailed over my chest brushing my nipples, I lost control altogether, pushing him almost violently against the cubicle wall, getting soaked to the skin as I stepped under the flow of water. Our bodies pressed against each other below the waist, and I could hear him groan in my ear as I let out my own cry. The intensity of the contact was unbearable, like balancing on a knife edge. I couldn't stop myself from grinding against him again, to hear the gasp of breath, the whispered oath.

Closing my mouth over his, I let one hand trail down slowly; from his shoulders, to his chest, to his stomach. He was toned from his infrequent Quidditch practice. He hadn't played a game in months, thanks to his misbehaviour and frequent detentions, but he stayed in shape by getting up in the air with James whenever he could. I watched that body every day, as he dressed in the morning, and undressed at night. It was lean and taut, and he easily pinned James with his lighter build down when they tussled, though James tended to win sometimes out of pure cunning. Sirius was ticklish, after all; a terrible Achilles' heel when battling an unscrupulous opponent. My frame was lighter still, but I had the added strength my lycanthropy gave me. Right now, I probably could have wrestled both of them at once and won.

My hand slid down over his hip, resting there for a few moments, before snaking around to cup his arse. I delighted in the sudden intake of breath, the renewed vigour in his kiss. The confused look in his eyes when I pulled back. The way they rolled up and his eyelids fluttered when my wandering hand closed firmly around him, giving a tiny squeeze. When I began to move it, gently, slowly up and down, at the same lazy pace he'd practiced on himself earlier, he actually whimpered. His hot mouth closed on mine again, and then he was fumbling with my pants. The sodden fabric was stubborn, and I had to help him to free myself from them. Finally, I was just as naked as he.

My eyes met his, and they burned me. Feeling reckless, I took a step back, held his gaze, reached down and grasped myself, giving my cock a casual stroke. It was his turn to push me back against a wall, and he was holding me, I was holding him, and we were urgently thrusting into each other's fists. The swell carried me up and away far too soon. I could hear my gasps and moans increasing in intensity and pitch, in chorus with his own. He was leaning forward, resting his chin on my shoulder, his lips moving in prayers or curses; I couldn't tell which. Occasionally he kissed the soft skin of my neck, and when he came; his body crushed me hard against the wall, bringing me to a climax with a shout. We stood like that for a few moments, maybe whole minutes; panting, trembling. Our hands lazily stroking, wandering up and down each other's bodies. Then he pulled me forward into the spray, kissing me deeply and languidly as the water washed away the evidence of our brief encounter.

He left without a word, just another intense look, and one of his slow-blossoming smiles that left me almost as hard as I had been before we started. Somehow, jerking off didn't quite cut it after that.

To all outward appearances, nothing had changed. He was still the ladies' man, troublemaker, Quidditch player and James Potter's partner in crime. I was still their swotty friend, Prefect, secret werewolf. But under the surface, everything was different. I kept up my habit of late night-time showers. Occasionally, he would be there, waiting, when I arrived. Sometimes, he would come in later. 

The daredevil came out in him when I admitted after a while I'd been watching him masturbate in the dorms for months. After that, he made somewhat of a performance of it. Sheets flung back, he'd take off his pyjamas and caress himself all over, flexing, arching his body, biting his lip and gasping. I got my own back on the little tease, the night I climbed into his bed, ducked under the blankets and licked his balls for half an hour, all the while forcing him to remain silent lest he wake our unconscious audience of two.

I think James knew something was up. Occasionally I'd catch him watching Sirius or myself with an odd expression, which vanished as soon as he saw me looking at him. Peter never guessed, of that I was sure. He was always oblivious to anything and everyone around except James. 

Sirius still "dated", regaling the dorm with his encounters. Occasionally, a story would sound very familiar. In the middle of his tale of a wanton Ravenclaw going down on him by the edge of the lake in daylight, only yards away from a cluster of other students, I caught his eye and saw the silent laugh in the twinkle there. Though it could have been a real girl (he had by no means restricted his activities on that front) the knowing smile that lurked at the corners of his mouth when he glanced in my direction confirmed my suspicions. That night he gave me a stunning blowjob in the Common Room that made me leave fingertip bruises scattered across his shoulders like petals. It was so late that the house elves had been and gone and the fire burned so low it was just a cluster of orange, glowing embers. 

After, we just stayed there for a while, in silence. He stretched out, full length across the couch, with his head in my lap looking up into my face as I played with his thick, wavy hair. I stroked the features of his face; cheeks, eyebrows, nose. As my fingertips brushed his lips so softly - the same fingertips that had bruised his skin cruelly half an hour before - he kissed them. "You love me," he whispered. Like his statement in the bathroom, this wasn't a question.

"Yes," I breathed, my hand cupping his cheek. His eyes met mine, bewildered, wondering. 

He didn't say he loved me back. I didn't expect him to.


	2. Chapter One: Existence

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Remus survives, post-First War

School ended, and the war crushed the last of our innocence from us, coldly and efficiently. We both joined the Order fresh out of Hogwarts, idealistic fools that we were. Making the world a better place, saving it from evil. We soon learnt that fighting in the Resistance meant a whole lot of waiting, futility, skirmishes and pain. Watching people we'd known for years being taken from us in an instant, dying slowly of curses or wounds that couldn't be healed, or disappearing one night without sign. The war made us both hard, jaded. Sirius still laughed, but it had an edge to it I hated to hear. The gallows humour that we all developed back then was inevitable, even necessary for survival, but no more pleasant for that. 

The times we saw each other, there was a tension, a strain in the air that both of us felt but neither acknowledged. The times we slept together, it was urgent, almost violent in its intensity, as though we were both trying to drown out the reality we existed in. We didn't seem to talk any more about anything of substance. The Order required a certain amount of secrecy amongst its members. None of us really knew what any of the others were doing, unless we were on a job in a team. Suspicion of your closest friends was an unfortunate consequence of the times. 

Then the Potters died, Peter died, and Sirius was taken to Azkaban. In one short night, all three of my closest friends in the world were gone, as effectively as if they had never existed. The only survivor was the child, the baby I'd held on my knee, the baby with James's face and Lily's eyes; Sirius's godson.

I stayed long enough for the funerals, then left. I didn't know where I was going. I mourned, but this time there was no James to hold me, to comfort me. James was cold and dead, lying under the soil with Lily, while his son was given to Muggles to raise, and his murderer was screaming in Azkaban. I wandered for years, settling occasionally for a while, before the restlessness moved me to pull up roots again. 

The last time we were together haunted me, that time not long before everyone had died. The intensity of his stare, pinning me. The glisten in its depths cold, even as he kissed me, took me, consumed me. I wondered when he had changed. Whether he had ever changed. Maybe this was what he was, what he had always been, deep down, at the core. A man who would coldly sell his friends while smiling jovially, coming over for tea, kissing their baby. Fucking their friend. Melancholy gripped me, and I wondered why I was still alive.

The Change was terrible during those years. Days ahead, I would have to find myself a secure location. I carried shackles in my suitcases, just in case I couldn't find a cellar or a strong room that would do. I spent too many moons in the wilds, in mountain caves, chained immobile. Daylight would find me bleeding and raw from the force of my struggles where the iron had held me, sometimes with dislocated joints from my contortions. A whispered password and the cuffs would release me, sobbing into the dust. I was truly wretched. 

Even when I began to climb out of the pit towards some kind of self sufficiency, my lycanthropy closed doors in my face. I was unemployable. I was politely, but firmly, asked to leave one community after another. Eventually I settled in a garret apartment in London. It was cold, draughty and so sparsely furnished that my bed was a mattress on the floor. The landlady was a grim sort of woman, with a square jaw and squinted eyes. She didn't care that I was a werewolf. She just wanted rent, in cash, promptly on the assigned day. For an extra Galleon on top of that, she let me use the old cellar once a month when the Change came. It was damp, mossy, and housed plenty of rats, but it had a solid oak door with a heavy iron lock and inch thick bars on the small, high windows. I had Changed in far worse places. I even quite liked the rats. After all, Peter had been one when he transformed.

I found freelance work here and there, advertising in the _Prophet_ occasionally, but more in the scientific journals like _Transfiguration Today_. I did my work by owl, never meeting with clients face to face, offering services in proofreading, research, translation, and so on. Scholarly pursuits were always my strong point, and this gave me a chance to exercise my intellect, read, and learn again, while making enough money to survive. I spent most of my time during the days at libraries and museums (magical and Muggle), and the evenings working. It was a way of life that I found suited me, and it continued that way for a number of years, untroubled by outside events. I doubt my landlady even knew my first name, and I had no other friends of acquaintances to speak of. Mine was a pleasant, if solitary existence. 

**************************************************

"May I come in? I hate to disturb you."

I had been working intently, cross-referencing, and hadn't heard the door open. The antique Muggle record player I had bought a year ago with the proceeds of a well paid project was playing Edith Piaf softly in the corner. Dumbledore studied it with some interest for quite a long time. Then, just when he appeared to be entirely entranced, he turned his laser eyes on me. "How are you, my boy?"

I tried not to react to this strange, unexpected appearance. I had not seen Dumbledore for many years. In fact, I rather wondered how he had found me at all. I didn't advertise my existence or my residence, and all my work was conducted by necessity under a pseudonym. With Albus Dumbledore, however, it was best not to dwell too much on _how_ he knew things, and just assume that he _did_. That was certainly the way it was at school, and even in the Order during the war. Anything you told Dumbledore seemed most of the time to simply confirm his own existing suspicions about a situation, rather than surprise him.

"I'm well. As you can see, I have made myself quite comfortable." I gestured to my living space. Though I still had no bed for my mattress, I had furnished myself for my chosen trade. I had a solid, if shabby, writing desk and chair. They were my first purchases, when I finally saved enough of my commissions to buy something other than food. A bookcase stood against a wall, with a small but slowly growing collection of second-hand reference books. The tiny grate actually had a fire in it this evening; an irregular luxury. My extra set of robes and my cloak hung on a rail near the uncurtained window. They were patched and threadbare, but scrupulously clean. Though likewise battered and scuffed, my wand, lying in the pencil groove of the desk, was carefully polished. I had worked for what I had, and took a fierce pride in having done it.

"Indeed," Dumbledore agreed, with a kindly smile, and his eyes told me that he knew exactly. I was a little unnerved.

"Tea?" I offered, making my way to the tiny stove. 

"Yes, thank you."

"I've no milk, I'm afraid. I take mine black."

"Perfectly fine, my dear boy."

It was a Muggle camping stove, designed to run on kerosene. I had charmed it to heat by magic, an act which would earn me a reprimand from the Improper Use of Muggle Artefacts Office, should they hear about it. Dumbledore no doubt recognised it immediately for what it was, but when I glanced covertly at him as I lit it with the tip of my wand he was studying my bookshelf most intently, as if nothing else in the room could interest him more.

When the tea was made, I offered him my only chair, which he accepted politely, while I perched on the edge of the desk, carefully moving my papers aside. After some innocent questions about my work, conversation turned to the topic of Hogwarts, which I instantly recognised as the one he'd been waiting to raise since he arrived. 

"I would like to offer you the position as teacher of Defence Against the Dark Arts when the new school year begins in September."

I sipped my tea. "I was under the impression Gilderoy Lockhart still held that position."

Dumbledore gave me a very knowing look. "You know, as well as I, that Gilderoy was an unfortunate necessity. No one suitable was available, and time, as it were, forced my hand. He has made an admirable nuisance of himself. Even were he an excellent teacher, the staff would revolt were his tenure to continue beyond the summer term."

"Why now?" I asked. "What has changed?"

He sighed. "Harry needs you," he said bluntly. I winced, the tea turning acrid in my mouth at those words. "He grows, day by day, into the man he must be if he is to face what one day will inevitably come. But he has questions I cannot answer, about his family, his parents. You are the only man alive who can tell him what he needs to know, who can give him the information he seeks."

"Not the only man," I said bitterly. "Nor the one who knew them best."

"No," he agreed. "But you are all he has. The only one from those times left who was close to the Potters, who can give him what he needs. Hagrid and I have done all that we can, but neither of us knew them as intimately as you did, or as a friend, rather than a colleague."

I stared into my tea, as if its amber depths held the answer. "What makes you think he'd even listen to me?"

"Harry is surprisingly mature for his age. Unfortunate circumstances throughout his childhood caused him to develop remarkable resilience and self-reliance out of necessity. However, to encourage these attributes without balancing them with avenues of support, freely available, should he need them, would be dangerously unwise. I think the addition of your presence in his life next year would be of enormous benefit - to both of you."

I looked sharply at Dumbledore at this, and his eyes were annoyingly mild. Instead of replying with a biting retort, I swallowed the dregs of my tea, and remarked, "I imagine there would be certain members of your current staff who would object to my appointment."

Dumbledore smiled, brightly. "Indeed. Professor Snape has taken it upon himself to advise me twice already against it. I have no doubt that his objections will continue for the duration of your employment." His face became more serious again. "He has, however, agreed to substitute for you when you find yourself unable to teach, and brew the Wolfsbane Potion as often as you require it during your time at the school."

My eyebrows rose. "He offered this?"

Dumbledore smiled again, this time slightly wryly. "He agreed to it." I noted the subtle distinction. "You know Severus well enough, I am sure, to recognise that pride in his own work would not allow him to produce a brew that is anything less than perfect?" I nodded. 

Whatever else Severus Snape was, or had been, he was an excellent Potions Master and exacting in his art. His own meticulousness in this area meant the Wolfsbane would indeed be perfect, regardless of his resentment towards me. Sabotage in other ways would, however, be completely within his character. A malicious little voice prodded me to take the job, if simply to annoy the hell out of Severus. Then the sudden thought occurred, _Sirius would have loved that_. I quashed it.

"How long a tenure did you have in mind?" I asked, as casually as I could, watching him as he weighed his answer.

"I would imagine only a short one," Dumbledore replied, his eyes twinkling a little. "You may have noticed that over the years, dating back beyond your own time as a student, we seem to have had rather unfortunate luck in retaining a teacher for the position." He paused, the sparkle diminishing. "And I feel I can safely assume that concealing your condition for longer than a single school year would prove very stressful for all involved, most importantly, yourself."

I understood. Even with the Wolfsbane, Changing in such close proximity to so many children would be nerve-wracking, and all possible precautions being taken wouldn't erase the fears that generated. An adult stumbling across a werewolf would have a chance if they kept a cool head and their wand - a child had no hope. _I had had no hope..._ I also knew too well that it was only a matter of time before someone noticed the cyclical nature of my absences, or Severus let the events of twenty years past rule his actions in the present.

At some point while pondering this, I realised that I had accepted the position in every way except saying the words aloud. I held Dumbledore's gaze, and asked again, "Why now?"

It was a loaded question. I knew Harry was nearly thirteen. Every child had questions at that age. But questions about his parents, Harry would have had since he could talk. So why was Dumbledore seeking me out now, not a year ago, or two, or some year in the future? Why this year, this time?

His eyes on mine contained an intensity... sadness?... when he spoke at last. "I did consider you when the position became vacant last year, but in the end I decided it would be too soon. Not for Harry, but for you." I felt a jolt, somewhere in the pit of my stomach, and looked away. A few heartbeats later, he continued. "I think that meeting at this time will be a good thing; for Harry, and for yourself. For Harry, it will give him some needed grounding in his past, and in our world. For you... I think it will give you grounding in the present."

There was a long silence. "You should prepare yourself for when you see him for the first time," he added gently. "He looks very like James, at that age. But he possesses a reserve and gravity that James never did. He had to bear much heavier burdens, long before he should have. And his eyes..."

"I remember," I said quietly.

"He has her fire too, and her will. And yet he is completely himself."

I said nothing, looking down at the empty cup still in my hands. I heard Dumbledore place his own on the edge of the desk, before squeezing my shoulder gently. "Until September then, Remus."

The door closed with a soft click as Dumbledore let himself out.


	3. Chapter Two: Ghosts That Walk

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Shadows of the past intrude as Remus prepares himself to leave for Hogwarts.

It was summer, stifling and smoggy, when the news broke. 

Although there was still a month before I taught my first class, I was preparing. I had scaled back my commissions almost completely, and informed regular clients by owl that I was taking an eleven month break and that I would be available again for new projects at the beginning of July next year. I ran a small advertisement to that effect in the periodicals I sourced my customers from, to cover all my bases. I would probably lose some to other scholars in my line of work, but hopefully I would have something waiting for me when I arrived back home at the end of the school year.

Everything of real value I had I was taking with me. Dumbledore had kindly sent me an advance of my pay (unasked for), which solved the problem of my room. I was able to place a down payment of several months’ worth of rent, to keep it waiting for me until I could afford to send more. Since the salary Hogwarts teachers received was comfortable, and many times what I made in my regular line of work, I calculated that I should easily be able to afford to keep my room aside until I came back to London. My furniture would stay, of course. The landlady looked a little askance at me, wondering, no doubt, how I came to be in possession of so many Galleons at once. After watching me sceptically as I made my proposition, she took the gold. She was a practical woman, like that. An empty room making money was much less trouble than a lodger, after all. And if I didn't pay up, or didn't come back, she would just sell my furniture and get someone else in. She was honest, and I knew she would keep my room for me if I kept up my end of the bargain. I was a relatively low maintenance tenant after all, despite my once-a-moon transformation. 

The money was also enough for me to buy a ticket on the Hogwarts Express on the first of September, and travel with the students. It was an uncharacteristic expenditure for me, but a necessary one. I would be recovering from my latest Change when school began again, and the Floo was an unpleasant and dirty way to travel at the best of times, despite its speed. I didn't fancy taking it while wrestling with my luggage, in a weakened state. I would be liable to end up in Cornwall, and lose all my worldly goods halfway into the bargain. Though the Express would be noisy, bustling with excited children, and take from almost midday until well after dark to reach its destination, I doubted this would bother me.

So I was quite preoccupied with matters of this ilk and a bit "peaky" from the remnants of my last Change a few short days previously as I wandered down the street, towards the hustle and bustle of Diagon Alley. I had confirmed the texts my students would be using with Flourish and Blotts some weeks previously, and I had it in my mind to visit and make sure the order had been processed successfully, before perusing the newly arrived volumes in the tiny "second-hand" section at the back of the store. I was still searching for a couple of titles that would make writing my lesson plans for the Advanced students easier, which the school's undoubtedly excellent library did not carry. Somewhat absently I bought a croissant from the baker's, and if there were excited murmurs around me from the other customers, I did not notice, lost as I was in my own thoughts.

It wasn't until I was only a short distance from the door to the bookshop, brushing the last of the crumbs from my fingertips, that I nearly collided with a paperboy selling the _Daily Prophet_. While I was apologising, my eyes fixed on the paper in his hand, and I felt myself freeze. There _he_ was, looking up at me, so motionless he could have been a corpse. The boy was saying something to me, and without looking I thrust some Knuts into his outstretched hand. I evidently gave him too many, because when I waved him away a moment later, he looked highly pleased and continued his spruiking with a renewed vigour. I all but collapsed against a nearby wall and continued to stare at the _Prophet_ in my hand. People walked around me, paying me no attention. A man reading the paper was nothing special, and if he looked so shocked and frightened; well, that was just common sense. After all, the headline was an alarming one.

I still wasn't reading. I was staring at the picture which took up much of the front page. There he stood, still as a Muggle photograph. Only the glint in his eyes, which were sunken and shadowed, betrayed that he was alive at all. His hair, his beautiful, silken hair, was matted and threaded with silver. Those cheeks I had stroked so lovingly were gaunt and hollow, those hands that had held and stroked me gripped the number plate, the nails broken and encrusted with filth. It was a grotesque parody, a cruel vision. This stranger wearing the face of the man I loved.

I read the headline numbly. _SIRIUS BLACK ESCAPES FROM AZKABAN_ , and below, in smaller font, _Minister Calls For Calm From Magical Community_. This caption was accompanied by a passport sized photograph of Fudge, looking decidedly flustered and alarmed himself.

I walked home and lay down on my mattress fully clothed. I didn't rise again that day, but didn't sleep, either. The paper lay accusingly where I had dropped it, amongst my half-completed lesson plans. I could feel it burning me from across the room as if it gave out waves of heat. As if the man himself sat upon my desk, smiling at me, his eyes hard and cold.

************************************************************

I feigned disinterest to myself, but began taking the _Prophet_ compulsively. Eight o'clock in the morning would find me sitting outside a cafe, reading the morning news over tea and toast that often went tepid and stale without me touching them. Nothing much new happened over the days following the initial announcement, just reiteration of the initial facts and Ministry rumbling about this or that. That didn't surprise me. He was ever resourceful. The Animagus Transformation would keep him safe from detection, and I imagined that he would use it almost exclusively. Even after all these years, I couldn't rationally justify to myself that I had kept that secret from everyone. Kept his secret; from the Ministry, from the Order. At the time of the murders, I was too much in shock. And then when he was sent to Azkaban it didn't seem to matter any more, and I set my feet on the wanderer's path, seeking in some passive way my own torment. 

The _Prophet_ dredged up every sordid detail from thirteen years ago, and invented some more to pad things out. I forced myself to read every word, as if torturing myself could make a difference, although what difference I hoped to make, I didn't know. James and Lily smiled up at me from a page somewhere in every edition. The picture was from their engagement announcement, and it was the one that had been used for their death notices too. Watching them kiss, seeing Lily gently stroking down James's lapels and straightening his tie, and turning their glowing eyes to the camera when they could bear to look away from each other hurt, in a deep, visceral way, as it hadn't done since the end of the war. I felt very old, and very tired. And Hogwarts, with all its memories, was very fast becoming the last place on earth I wanted to be leaving for in under a month's time. I started thinking wistfully about the countryside in the south of France. Somewhere green, fresh and provincial, where the _Prophet_ didn't circulate and Sirius Black wasn't even a whisper on the wind.

Dumbledore, of course, predicted my mood and change of heart precisely, in his usual infuriating way. About a week and a half after the story of Sirius's escape first broke, a thick, creamy Hogwarts envelope was delivered by one of the school owls. Inside was a form letter alerting the staff to the Ministry's imposition of heightened security at the school that year, outlining the details. I made a mental note to purchase a large quantity of Honeyduke's finest before I got anywhere near Hogwarts or Hogsmeade. Slipped in as well was a neat square of parchment with a note in Dumbledore's own handwriting.

  
_I've heard that Florean Fortescue's Ice Cream Parlour is an excellent establishment for a light afternoon supper.  
Perhaps you should consider visiting it before your departure on the first of September.  
I recommend the Sticky Date Sorbet with Butterscotch Sauce._

**********************************************************

I stayed away from the Alley in general, and Fortescue's in particular, for several days before I decided I was behaving in a decidedly juvenile fashion. I couldn't avoid Diagon Alley indefinitely, and my curiosity was piqued. Muttering a few choice swear words about the nature of smug elderly wizards who couldn't keep out of other people's business (which I knew was also very juvenile), I headed out just after one. Fortescue's was in a bit of a lull by the time I got there, the lunch crowd having moved on. I found a table against the front wall facing out into the street with ease. Florean bustled over, his usual, cheery self. Deciding firmly against the sickeningly sweet sounding Sorbet, I ordered a carafe of iced tea, took out some parchment, a quill and an inkpot, and settled in to wait.

I had been there, sipping my drink and idly scratching out some notes, for maybe three quarters of an hour when he arrived, and I wondered how I had not guessed from the moment I read the note who it would be. I glanced up from writing at Florean's exuberant greeting, and there he stood. I felt the blood drain right away from my face as a sharp stabbing pain pierced my heart and stopped my breath. Neither Florean nor Harry noticed my odd reaction, for they engaged in an animated conversation almost immediately. Harry was ushered quickly to a vacant table, and presented with a large sundae almost before he had taken his seat.

My first coherent thought when my breathing resumed was that Florean stuffing the boy with ice cream at regular intervals was probably exactly what he needed. James had always had a slight, fine build, but Harry was _thin_. His colour was pallid, as if he spent too little time in the sun, and his cheeks had a pinched, unhealthy look that suggested he didn't get enough to eat. His clothing didn't help. Though, like my own, it was clean, the clothes draped over his slender frame were clearly someone else's cast-offs; far too big and baggy, and wearing thin. The soles of his shoes were peeling away from the uppers, and the sleeves of his shirt were rolled many times and shoved up over his elbows to stop them from trailing in the ink as he scribbled away between mouthfuls of sundae at what I assumed was homework. 

He was _neglected_. That was the next thought, and it sickened me. James and Lily's boy. I knew from conversations distant years back that Lily's sister and her husband were hardly poor. If they were, Harry's state might at least be understandable. But Dumbledore's words of months before echoed through my mind. _Unfortunate circumstances throughout his childhood caused him to develop remarkable resilience and self-reliance out of necessity..._ I wondered suddenly if the ill-fitting clothing concealed more than just fragile looking limbs; if a patchwork of hidden bruises blossomed on his skin, out of sight of prying eyes. I decided I didn't want to know.

Watching Harry discreetly over the next hour was exquisitely painful. He was polite and friendly, chatting with Florean in between customers and quizzing him for useful details to flesh out his essay. Florean was quite the amateur historian, which would have surprised a lot of people who saw him as merely a shopkeeper. I saw instantly that Harry was so different to his father; he had a reserve, a guardedness about him, that even the war had never produced in James. There was an alertness, a watchfulness, too. When a loud noise echoed across the Alley, Harry's exaggerated startle response spoke volumes. And yet, there were moments when he would tilt his head a certain way, smile, or laugh at one of Florean's jokes that reminded me so much of James that it was hard to believe that this scruffy waif was not my old friend made new.

I bore it as long as I could, then paid and left. Dumbledore had made his point. I walked home, and despite the early hour pulled out the bottle of Firewhiskey I kept in the bottom drawer. Setting the needle of the player on a record, I sat and drank slowly until my hands stopped trembling, the lump in my throat softened, and sleep would come with ease.

****************************************************************

The next two weeks passed too swiftly. I trimmed down and finalised my lesson plans, rewriting them neatly and clearly. I stumbled across an excellent quality copy of one of the books I had been seeking (hidden under a cauldron with a hole in it, in a small and cluttered trash and treasure store) for the extremely reasonable price of two Sickles and a Knut. And I watched Harry, on and off, from a distance. My sharpening eyesight (thanks to the approaching full moon) meant that I could observe him unobtrusively from halfway up the Alley. He seemed to spend the days window shopping and meeting up with friends and acquaintances that came to buy their school supplies. 

Harry was always unaccompanied, which seemed unusual to me, given the current state of things and his age, until I realised one day that Aurors seemed to keep very odd lunch hours. I noticed Kingsley Shacklebolt at around ten in the morning, intently studying the new window display at Flourish and Blotts, and the next day at three in the afternoon, apparently examining the new specimens at Eeylops Owl Emporium with interest, although he left without buying one. I had seen Dawlish earlier in the day, equally absorbed in the task of choosing the fabric for a new set of formal robes from Madam Malkin, and although he was inside the shop, he always faced the large front window, through which he could see a clear view of the row of shops opposite. 

As if to confirm my suspicions, Shacklebolt turned at that moment and caught my eye across the street. He nodded briefly, politely, and I returned the gesture. I observed him casually mark his target again, scanning the crowd so briefly as to be almost imperceptible, then wander idly down to another shop front, another display, as if there was nothing in the world to hasten his pace this leisurely afternoon. The Ministry was watching out for Harry, and, knowing Dumbledore, probably some 'unofficial' individuals were keeping tabs on him too. It was a comfort that someone was. I was certain Harry was unaware of it. It had taken me a considerable amount of time to recognise the bodyguards, even with my heightened senses. I had no doubt they had noted my presence much sooner; probably from the moment I sat down that afternoon at Florean Fortescue's. Shacklebolt was sharp, and very good at what he did. The fact that it took me so long to notice that a tall, African man with a glistening bald head who stalked like a panther was shadowing Harry day after day spoke for his prowess.

Now accustomed to seeing Harry, I was more confident that I would be able to act naturally around him, teach my classes without his presence distracting me. I stopped haunting Diagon Alley, and left his care to the lurking Aurors. I packed my belongings carefully, leaving out only a couple of necessary items, several days before the first of September. The next twenty four hours I spent entirely in my room. I paced incessantly, too filled with nervous energy to stand still or sit. I had no appetite, but I drank tea, black and boiling hot, for something to do and to keep up my fluids. My hands shook, and I broke my cup twice. I mended it clumsily, with a quiver in my voice. I didn't sleep. 

The little sounds of the city filled my quiet space like a roar. I was privy to virtually every noise and conversation of Muggle and wizarding London within a one to two block radius at these times. Closer to a mile in rural areas, if the ground was flat. As I trod the bare boards of my room, I swam through a muddle of sound. Arguments, gossip, lovemaking, Wirelesses, televisions, cracks of Apparition and Disapparition, the steady rumble of automobile traffic and the high-pitched scream of air traffic. Telephones, dogs, cats, toilets flushing; each noise separate and unique, each recognisable despite being overlaid by others equally as distinct.

I could hear not only my heartbeat thudding like a drum in my ears and my chest, and my lungs like bellows expanding and contracting, but also the gurgle of my digestive juices and the creaking of my joints and connective tissues as I walked. The sounds alone could drive me mad, hours before night began to approach on the day of the full moon.

When I first moved to London, I had tried 'walking off' my Pre-Moon Tension by prowling the streets at night, as I had the country lanes and wilds, but I soon gave it up. A cracked and leaking sewer or gas pipe, an overflowing skip bin spewing rubbish ready for collection, the yeasty fumes of a bakery cooking its first loaves of the day, or a woman doused in perfume brushing past me could leave me heaving in the gutter, mistaken for a drunk by passers-by. When the Muggle police nearly "took me in" on my third Full Moon in the city for suspected intoxication with illicit substances, which even I knew was not a good thing, only my lupine speed and strength got me away. After that, I paced in the privacy of my room, which smelled of myself, wood, dust, parchment, ink, wool, candle wax, tea, and the vinyl/grease/metal scent of the record player which put me in mind somehow of the London Underground; that strange odour peculiar to electric trains. These scents are bearable. They are mine, after all.

Mid-afternoon on the day of the Change, I lock myself in. I tuck my wand safely in a convenient groove where the mortar has long since disintegrated. Though I can reach it easily with my human fingers, once I Change the gap will be far too small to touch it. Then, I settle in to wait. Though the high barred windows let some light in, I don't need the signs of the sun to know the time. I feel the tug of the moon like the tides on the ocean. Around twelve hours before moonrise, the ache begins. A deep, bone gnawing throb, as my body prepares itself on a molecular level. I still pace, though it shoots jolts of fire through my limbs and makes my brain knock against my skull, causing bursts of white light to explode behind my eyes. 

The Change, when it comes at last, is sudden and violent, as always. My body is taken by a giant's hands, stretched and remoulded like clay. My own screams ring in my ears... and then there are only hours of the vivid, fever-dreams, my senses and instincts alien to myself, the moon driving me like an Imperius curse to escape.

Though it was by no means a bad one, the next day found me bruised, sore, and above all, exhausted. I took my suitcase from my room, shutting the door firmly behind me, and made my way to King's Cross Station. Despite my slow, painful progress, I reached the platform with plenty of time to spare. It was deserted, with only the elderly guard standing there to check my ticket. The train stood waiting, letting out the occasional little puff or gasp of steam like little sighs of boredom. 

Boarding and settling in a compartment took the last of my strength. I pulled out my cloak and draped it over myself like a blanket. The day was grey, and my overwrought body was beginning to shiver. I fell asleep quickly, and did not dream.


	4. Chapter Three: A Taste of Fear

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Remus meets Harry sooner than he expected, and under very different circumstances.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter contains dialogue and situations originally created by and belonging by copyright to JK Rowling. Some lines of dialogue are taken and used verbatim from Chapter Five (The Dementor) of _Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban_ (p. 93-99 of the Bloomsbury adult cover pbk edition). However, the arrangement and descriptive passages surrounding any copyrighted dialogue, and any additional dialogue not contained in JK Rowling's work, is my own.

_For as children tremble and fear everything in the blind darkness, so we in the light sometimes fear what is no more to be feared than the things children in the dark hold in terror and imagine will come true.  
LUCRETIUS_

_Where are you going, stream?  
Far, far away.   
Take me with you, stream.   
Take me on your dark journey.   
Lord Frith, take me far away, to the hearts of light.   
The silence. I give you my breath.   
My life. The silence._

_RICHARD ADAMS, Watership Down (1978 film) adapted from the book (Ch16)._

 

I woke to the sounds of frightened children chattering in the dark. Despite still being far from well, the lingering wolfish senses allowed me to become instantly alert, and aware. We were not yet at our destination, and the air was thick with the pungent scent of fear. Whispered voices and shrill, nervous giggles echoed up and down the corridor... but there was something else. Something very wrong, right on the edge of my senses. Something dangerous.

"Quiet," I said, and instantly the other occupants of the compartment hushed. I wordlessly conjured bluebell flames into my hand. 

I could smell it now; stagnant water, rotting flesh. Hear the death rattle. 

Slowly standing, I held the flames before me like a torch. "Stay where you are," I rasped, my throat raw from the night before, but even as I said it, I knew the words were useless. It was already here.

Icy cold flooded the compartment. The children shrank back instinctively; I heard a boy moan, a young girl's whimper of fear. Every impulse told me to do the same, but I forced myself to stand firm. The Dementor breathed; a long, shuddering inhalation, tasting the air. It showed no signs of moving on. The moment seemed to stretch out, and it took yet another of those horrible sucking gasps, savouring, with an obscene pleasure, the terror it was inducing. 

One child slid from the seat to lie unconscious, limbs jerking, on the floor. This had gone too far. Regardless of the Ministry's edict, I'd be damned if I stood by and watched the filthy things feed on the children they were supposed to be guarding. Stepping carefully over the fallen child, I faced the Dark creature, and spoke with a steadiness that was at odds with my own fear. "None of us is hiding Sirius Black under our cloaks. Go."

I reached down deep within myself; beneath the fear and the pain, and grasped hold of a shining memory. _Thick hair beneath my fingers... his eyes on mine, wondering..._ The Patronus burst from my wand.

Immediately, everyone in the carriage took a deep breath, as though suddenly the air was easier to breathe. When I was sure it was gone, I knelt at the side of the boy on the floor. Harry. Of course it was him. I sighed, and pushed his fringe back, revealing his lightning scar, to feel the clammy skin of his forehead. At least the convulsions had stopped with the departure of the Dementor. We were both of us too fragile for this.

"Is he going to die?" quavered a tiny voice, as the first of the carriage lights flickered back to life. Four pale faces hovered above me. The red headed boy and brown haired girl looked shaken but alright; however the boy with the oddly familiar round face looked distinctly ill, and the red haired girl - sister to the first boy? - who had spoken was trembling violently and looked on the verge of collapsing herself.

"No, he's just fainted," I reassured them, at which they all looked relieved. The compartment gave a sharp jerk, reminiscent of a Portkey, and the train slowly, squealing and groaning, began to move again, chuffing hard to build up speed. Turning to the girl and boy who were the steadiest, I asked, "Will you two try and wake him, please? I need to get something from my suitcase." The brunette nodded, her mouth firming into a line, and I was momentarily impressed by her cool head. 

Straightening up, I faced the red haired girl, who was still shivering, clearly terrified. She looked younger than the others. "I want you to sit back for me. If you feel dizzy, put your head down between your knees or lie across the seat, alright?" She nodded, and shrank back into the corner, tucking her knees up to her chest and hugging them tightly. 

When I glanced towards the other boy, he quickly murmured, "I'm okay."

"Are you sure?" I asked. He nodded, swallowing hard. Though he still looked sick, and his eyes were frightened, his jaw was set firmly in a mannerism I instantly knew but couldn't place. Now wasn't the time for puzzling it out, though. 

As I opened my suitcase and reached in, I could hear that the brown haired girl had progressed from calling Harry's name and shaking him firmly to the time-honoured remedy of slapping him sharply across the face, and I winced in sympathy. It seemed to be reaping results, however, as by the time I had turned and sat down on the seat above the trio, Harry was moaning softly.

"Harry! Harry! Are you alright?" she cried.

Harry grimaced and pushed her hand away from his now flaming cheek, mumbling, "W-what?" His eyes opened slowly, blinking at the light, obviously confused and disoriented at finding himself on the floor. The two others took an arm each, lifting him back onto the seat with an effort. Now that the colour in Harry's offended cheek was fading, he looked shockingly white. I began to unwrap the paper packet in my hands.

"Are you okay?" the red haired boy asked, tremulously. It was the first time he'd said a word.

"Yeah," Harry replied, and his voice shook, too. "What happened? Where's that... that thing? Who screamed?"

A cold weight settled in my stomach.

"No one screamed," the red headed boy responded, the quaver more pronounced. There was an awkward pause.

"But I heard screaming - " Harry started to insist. 

I began to break up the chocolate and all five of them startled as if I'd set off a firework. I handed Harry a sizable chunk. "Here. Eat it. It'll help." I turned to the girl in the corner, holding out an equally large piece. She took it tentatively, her huge eyes watching me closely. 

"What was that thing?" Harry asked, directly.

I continued handing pieces to the other three children, who murmured polite thanks. "A Dementor. One of the Dementors of Azkaban," I answered, as matter-of-factly as I could. The compartment became silent as a tomb, all eyes fixed on me. Stuffing the paper wrapping into my pocket, I insisted as patiently as I could, "Eat. It'll help. I need to speak to the driver, excuse me... "

I left and started up the corridor. The silence broke in my wake, the brown haired girl again asking Harry if he was okay. As I walked, I placed the last sliver of chocolate onto my tongue, and felt its warmth suffuse me. It wasn't much, but it would be enough until we reached our destination. 

There was chatter and mayhem the length of the train, but much of it had a forced, unnatural air. Many of the students, especially the Prefects at the front of the train, looked subdued. It bade ill for the coming year. Hogwarts and its surrounds would be guarded by not one, but many of the creatures. 

I borrowed the Emergency Owl from the driver to send a message ahead to the school. If my report of the incident was more vehement than it would have been at other times, I did not much care. It was factual, and it didn't contain the language that I was currently storing away for use should Cornelius Fudge be waiting by strange chance on the platform at Hogsmeade when we arrived. I somehow doubted it, but crafting perfect sentences with the maximum number of profanities was strangely satisfying, and this occupied me for much of the walk back.

The atmosphere in the compartment at the end of the train was gloomy when I entered, and I hesitated in the doorway, allowing a wry smile to quirk my lips. "I haven't poisoned that chocolate, you know..."  
There were an assortment of guilty expressions, and they all began to eat. Harry almost instantly lost a little of his pallor, and he blinked in surprise. "We'll be at Hogwarts in ten minutes," I continued, then asked, "Are you all right, Harry?"

The boy flushed scarlet with embarrassment, mumbling, "Fine," to his lap. I silently cursed my ineptitude. Harry was used to relying upon himself. His reaction to the Dementor, in front of his friends - what to him must seem such obvious weakness, or even cowardice - must have been humiliating. To continue to fuss would be adding insult to injury. I backed off, biting back the kind words and reassurances that leapt too readily to my lips. They would have to wait for another day, and a less public venue. I sat down, an uncomfortable guest in this solemn little party. I was only too happy to leave when we pulled into Hogsmeade a seemingly interminable time later.

I had thought that I could distance myself from Harry for the rest of the evening, give us both time to recover. However, the moment I stepped from my Thestral-drawn carriage outside the castle, the sound of mocking voices and sniggers drew my attention to a trio of boys in Slytherin robes clustered around Harry and his friends.

“Shove off, Malfoy,” the red-haired boy was saying angrily.

“Did you faint as well, Weasley? Did the scary old Dementor frighten you too, Weasley?” the pale Slytherin boy continued with malicious glee.

“Is there a problem?” I cut in.

The Malfoy boy looked me up and down, as if I had accosted him on the street, begging for spare change. His disdain was evident. “Oh, no – er – _Professor_ ,” he sneered, leading his posse away. 

I was careful to give Harry a wide berth as I made my way inside.

The feast revived me and tired me further in equal measures. I flushed a little at the enthusiastic welcome from the handful of Gryffindors I had travelled with. Harry was among them, and I felt a little touch of relief that I hadn't humiliated him beyond repair. The food was excellent, and I ate my fill, knowing I would need my strength to be able to teach in the morning. 

But on the downside, the din was incredible and the mixed aromas cloying so soon after the Change. The presence of so many people made me feel claustrophobic when I was used to none but my own company. And I could sense Severus's eyes on me the whole time, his undisguised rage and resentment palpable even from the other end of the table.

After hastily eating a slice of chocolate pudding for dessert, I made my apologies and departed for my new quarters and for bed. Finally lying between thick, cool sheets, allowing the fatigue of the last few days to overtake me, I firmly tried to push aside Harry's confused voice in my head, _Who screamed? ... I heard screaming..._ and the knowledge that the memory that had helped to conjure my Patronus was the face of the man the Dementor was there to seek.


	5. Chapter Four: The Clothes Maketh The Man

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The school year begins.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter contains dialogue and situations originally created by and belonging by copyright to JK Rowling. Some lines of dialogue are taken and used verbatim from Chapter Seven (The Boggart in the Wardrobe) of Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban (p. 144-152 of the Bloomsbury adult cover pbk edition). However, the arrangement and descriptive passages surrounding any copyrighted dialogue, and any additional dialogue not contained in JK Rowling's work, is my own.

Poppy tutted disapprovingly at me over breakfast the next morning, as if I were thirteen myself again.

"... should be in bed, not teaching classes all day, so soon after... and then that nasty business on the train," she muttered, scanning me with a firm, professional eye. "I suppose you gave away all your chocolate to Potter and his friends, with no thought of yourself at all... vulnerable, at the moment, in your condition... "

"These crumpets are excellent," I said, instead of answering her accusation. Even if I told her about the tiny shard of Honeydukes I kept for myself, she wouldn't believe me. A healthy dose of scepticism when doctoring teenagers was more than useful; it was vital. As a result, Madam Pomfrey tended to only believe what her eyes and wand told her, no matter what story was coming out of the mouth of the patient, or the patient's friends.

She sniffed. "You should at least take some Pepper Up. You're still looking very peaky." I could see her itching to bundle me up to the Infirmary, but as an adult, she couldn't do it against my will unless there was something seriously wrong with me. 

I smiled. "As kind as the offer is, Poppy, I have to decline. I rather think that steaming at the ears throughout my morning classes would distract my new students from their lesson."

She looked very grumpy at being thwarted, and went a little red as through she might start steaming from the ears herself. "... not an ounce of sense, Lupin. I thought you would have grown up, but you're just as foolish as you were twenty years ago, running around with those madcap friends of yo... " She stopped suddenly, raising a pale hand to her lips. Her eyes were wide, and glistened brightly as through they were holding back tears. "Oh, Remus... Remus, I'm so sorry... " she whispered, horror-struck, utterly remorseful.

"Poppy, I'm _fine_ ," I said gently, taking her trembling hand and giving it a squeeze. "Here, have some toast. Jam or marmalade?"

She left me alone after that, allowing me to enjoy my tea in peace. And if she did sniff a little, and wipe her eyes discreetly with a corner of her napkin, I pretended not to notice.

***********************************************************

My first few classes were a little nerve-wracking, but uneventful. Dumbledore had warned me ahead of time that the children's teaching had been patchy, to say the least. My sixth year students admitted hesitantly, after some prodding, that they had only passed their DADA OWLs at all last year by teaming up with the senior students for marathon study sessions in the library, and ignoring everything Gilderoy Lockhart said on principle. I began the required syllabus as planned, but made sure to allow time and flexibility for deviations from the topic to fill in the gaping voids that even dozens of hours of collaborative study couldn't fill. It soon became obvious that the same approach would be necessary for all but the First Years. At least my first day's teaching had seemed to go much better than Hagrid's.

I didn't see the Third Year Gryffindors until Thursday, by which time I was feeling more comfortable in my new role. I suspected the timetable had been drawn up this way deliberately, to give me time to settle in before facing Harry across a classroom, and I again felt the odd mixture of annoyance and gratitude at Dumbledore's wise interference. 

As it was, the delay was most fortuitous, and enabled me to make the class much more hands on. This was good for two reasons. Firstly, a practical lesson had much more chance of ‘sinking in’. Actually _doing_ was always more memorable for some students than making endless reams of notes. And secondly, I felt myself in need of this particular practical lesson after this morning’s _Daily Prophet_. A Muggle had spotted Sirius close – _too close_ – to Hogwarts. Though my logical brain tried to dismiss it as another false alarm, I couldn’t help but feel anxious. The problem was that I didn’t seem to know who to feel most anxious for. Harry? Myself? My murderous ex-lover?

I was on the receiving end of some very odd, even suspicious looks when I asked the class to pack up and follow me, though admittedly most of them changed to open admiration when I sent Peeves on his way. 

Severus surveyed the assembled group, me included, with open contempt when I led them into the Staff Room. "Leave it open, Lupin," he sneered, moving towards the door. "I'd rather not watch this." He paused for a final shot on the threshold. "Possibly no one's warned you, Lupin, but this class contains Neville Longbottom. I would advise you not to trust him with anything difficult. Not unless Miss Granger is hissing instructions in his ear," he remarked, acidly. 

Longbottom. Sure enough, the round faced boy from the train looked mortified. He was red to the tips of his ears, and looking down at his shoes. I recognised the resemblance I had noted on the train for what it was, now. He was the spitting image of his mother, though Alice's cheerful good humour was subdued in this shy, timid boy. I couldn't blame him for that. Though I heard about the attack on the Longbottoms several years after it happened, I had grieved, just the same. They were good people, decent people, and dedicated members of the Order. Given what had happened to them, my estimation of the lad went up a notch. Given his history, he could have easily been as affected as Harry and Ginny Weasley, the red haired girl; but he had kept his head.

The brown haired girl from the train had pinked slightly; ... Miss Granger? The class list swam behind my eyes... Hermione. Harry looked like thunder, undisguised fury and loathing directed unswervingly at Professor Snape. In that, at least, he was like his father. The next generation had stepped forward to carry the grudge.

I raised my brows, meeting Severus's eyes coolly, and replying as mildly as I could, "I was hoping that Neville could assist me with the first stage of the operation, and I am sure he will perform it admirably." This was too much for Severus, and he swept away with a parting glare of disgust.

I led the class to the back of the room to stand in front of a large, rather battered wardrobe. It jerked, rocking on its four legs, and a few of the children took a cautious step backwards. "Nothing to worry about," I stated placidly. "There's a Boggart in there." 

The reaction was immediate. Most of the ones who hadn't stepped back before, did so now. The Boggart was, quite literally, the "monster under the bed" Muggle children knew about. Magical children had the added terror of knowing it was real, and what it did - it reflected your own worst fears back at you. Neville had lost his embarrassed flush and bleached white; his fists were clutching the fabric of his robes tightly.

"Boggarts like dark, enclosed spaces. Wardrobes, the gap beneath beds, the cupboards under sinks - I once met one that had lodged itself in a grandfather clock." I gestured at the shaking wardrobe. " _This_ one moved in yesterday afternoon, and I asked the Headmaster if the staff would leave it to give my third-years some practice." I changed gears, seeing that I had their attention. "So, the first question we must ask ourselves is, what _is_ a Boggart?"

Hermione quickly established herself as the teacher's pet of the bunch. She was intelligent and liked showing off that she knew the answers. I made a silent resolution not to call on her more often than I had to. It would raise the ire of her fellows, and they would be more likely to disregard what she said, even if she was correct. It also helped when more than one student in the class was motivated to _think_. If Hermione did all the work, none of the others would develop the mental flexibility to achieve good marks in the course, let alone fight successfully against anything they encountered in the outside world.

Harry showed clearly that he could think on his feet, but I had to call him out by name for him to volunteer an answer. 

"The charm that repels a Boggart is simple, yet it requires force of mind," I continued. "You see, the thing that really finishes a Boggart is _laughter_. What you need to do is to force it to assume a shape that you will find amusing.

"We will practise the charm without wands first. After me, please... riddikulus!"

"Riddikulus!" the class chanted in response.

"Good. Very good. But that was the easy part, I'm afraid. You see, the word alone is not enough. And this is where you come in, Neville," I said, turning to him with an encouraging smile.

Neville looked positively ill as he made his way to the front of the group, and he was shaking almost as much as Ginny had on the train as he took his place in front of the wobbling cupboard.

"Right, Neville. First things first: what would you say is the thing that frightens you most in the world?" Though Neville's mouth formed words, his voice seemed to have deserted him. "Didn't catch that, Neville, sorry," I prompted.

Neville seemed on the verge of bolting in panic, before forcing out a barely audible response. "... Professor Snape."

A laugh rippled through the students, though not an unkind one, and a little, sheepish grin crept onto Neville's own pale countenance. I didn't laugh, but a wicked idea began to bubble in my brain. "Professor Snape... hmmm... Neville, I believe you live with your grandmother?"

"Er - yes. But I don't want the Boggart to turn into her, either," Neville confessed. I couldn't suppress a smile. Though I knew Augusta only by reputation, she was by all accounts a formidable woman; ferocious if provoked.

"No, no, you misunderstand me. I wonder if you could tell us what sort of clothes your grandmother usually wears?"

As Neville began to describe, my sense of amusement increased. Mischievously, I couldn't help but make it worse. I hadn't been a Marauder just in name, after all. "And a handbag?"

"A big red one." Better and better.

"Right then," I said briskly. "Can you picture those clothes very clearly, Neville? Can you see them in your mind's eye?"

"Yes... " he conceded, with some trepidation.

"When the Boggart bursts out of this wardrobe, Neville, and sees you, it will assume the form of Professor Snape. And you will raise your wand - thus - and cry 'Riddikulus' - and concentrate hard on your grandmother's clothes. If all goes well," I continued, spinning out the great 'reveal' to come. "Professor Boggart Snape will be forced into that vulture-topped hat, that green dress, that red handbag."

A wave of laughter broke from the class, and the wardrobe again rocked on its feet as the Boggart inside flinched at the sound. 

"If Neville is successful, the Boggart is likely to turn his attention to each of us in turn. I would like all of you to take a moment now to think of the thing that scares you most, and imagine how you might force it to look comical... " A hush descended as each child became suddenly introspective, staring off into space or shutting their eyes as they tried to find a humorous angle on their worst fears. Ron Weasley, the red headed boy from the train, was muttering to himself under his breath. "Everyone ready?" 

The class moved to the perimeter of the room at my instruction, leaving Neville at centre stage. He still looked very frightened, but his jaw was set, and his wand held out firmly before him.

I pointed my own wand at the wardrobe. "On the count of three, Neville. One - two - three - _now!_ " In time with the final word, a non-verbal _Alohamora!_ shot from the tip of my wand, hitting the doorknob. The wardrobe door flew open with a bang, and a very angry Severus Snape emerged; gliding towards the gibbering boy, reaching for his wand...

"R-r-riddikulus!" Neville stammered. 

There was a sharp report, like a cracker being pulled, and from one moment to the next I decided that my teaching position was very, very worth it. There stood Severus, in full moth-eaten, mismatched glory, red smudges of rouge on his cheeks, smelling distinctly of rose talcum and camphor. He looked utterly dismayed and confused as the class erupted into hysterical amusement. The tension had dissipated, and my students now looked eager, shuffling closer. "Parvati! Forward!" I cried, and she stepped up to the plate. Neville fell back into the crowd, where he was awarded a few slaps on the back and warm congratulations.

One by one my class faced and beat their fears, until inevitably the shape shifter stopped in front of Harry, and time seemed to freeze, just for an instant. Knowing that what was about to take place must not be allowed to continue, I stepped quickly forward, calling, "Here!" to distract the Boggart. With a crack, the silvery, glowing face of the Full Moon hung in the air before me. "Riddikulus! Forward, Neville, and finish him off!"

Neville strode into the ring determinedly, pointing his wand at Snape, shouting "Riddikulus!" in a firm voice. With the reappearance of his grandmother's attire, Neville's own derisive laugh was all it took for the Boggart to burst into a puff of smoke and disappear.

The class was cheering and clapping. "Excellent! Excellent, Neville. Well done, everyone." I quickly awarded points all round to the participants.

"But I didn't do anything," Harry protested. He sounded a little hurt, resentful. 

_Another time_ , I told myself again. "You and Hermione answered my questions correctly at the start of class, Harry," I reminded him, though even to me it sounded flimsy. 

I assigned the homework to be completed by the next lesson, and sank, exhausted, into a waiting armchair once the last, excited student had left, shutting the door behind them. I chuckled weakly, but Severus in drag kept being replaced in my mind with Harry's face, and the brief flash of misery that had crossed it when I drew the Boggart's attention away from him.


	6. Chapter Five: Metamorphosis

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The first Moon of the school year waxes Full.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This has to be one of my favourite chapters I've written so far, if not THE favourite. And the fact that it has porn actually has nothing to do with it, seriously. I really hope you like it too.

Severus placed a large goblet of thick, opaque blown glass on the desk in front of me. It was so dark green as to almost be black, and its contents were smoking. The potion had to be prepared and stored in either ceramic or glass cauldrons and jars, because it corroded metal. It certainly smelled as if it could. It had a sharp, chemical odour, overlaid with something reminiscent of burnt feathers.

I drew the glass close, twiddling the stem between my fingers, my heart pounding. I had read all about the Wolfsbane Potion, of course. When the invention was publicised, I had bought every journal and periodical that so much as mentioned it in passing. But it was extremely complex; well beyond my mediocre talents as a potioneer, and at least one of the ingredients had a price tag equal to several months’ worth of my living expenses. 

As a result, I had never actually taken it. Until now.

I knew the theory of what it would do inside out. I would still Change - no potion or charm in existence could prevent that - but the violent madness would be soothed. If I took this potion, I would remain sane. A beast with the clear thinking of a man; like some kind of involuntary Animagus. Somehow that was more frightening than my regular transformation ever had been.

I realised I had been dithering for the best part of a minute when I heard a derisive little laugh. Severus was watching my internal conflict with great amusement. The knowing look in his eyes said the word he didn’t need to speak. _Coward_.

Raising the vessel to my lips, I took a tentative sip. If I had intended this to be a parry to Severus’s thrust, I spoiled it miserably by gagging. The potion tasted worse than it smelled, which I had hoped wasn’t possible.

Severus raised a brow. “Sugar?” he drawled, laconically, as if this was some bizarre, macabre tea party he was playing host to. I ignored him. 

The story of Neville’s Boggart had become legendary almost instantly, spreading from student to student like some incredibly contagious disease. By breakfast on Friday morning, I was being asked covertly about it by other staff members, who were struggling - and often failing - to contain expressions of glee. 

Severus had spent the last three weeks up until today pretending I didn’t exist. Seeing me wrong-footed though; that was worth dropping the act for. He was back to his usual, sarcastic self, and incredibly smug with it. I decided to stop torturing myself; it was giving him far too much satisfaction.

Taking a deep, steadying breath, I suddenly downed the contents of the cup in several ragged gulps. It burned the length of my oesophagus, settling in my belly to simmer unpleasantly. I met Severus’s eyes again, challengingly. He looked almost disappointed that I hadn’t spat his potion the length of my desk.

“Tomorrow evening, then,” he said at last, with some distaste.

“Indeed,” I agreed. “Thank you, Severus.”

He greeted my politeness with his customary sneer, before turning swiftly and gliding out the door. 

This week, and the pre-Moon weeks to follow over the coming months, were certainly going to be interesting.

********************************************

I didn’t notice any real effect from taking the potion for at least three days. My senses sharpened gradually as they always did; colours becoming more vivid, sound more penetrating. Drinking a perfectly prepared cup of tea became an almost orgasmic experience, and anything heavily sugared became too painfully sweet to consume.

One side effect I had noticed almost immediately was a sudden spate of very vivid, highly sensory dreams. My recall of them was almost perfect on waking, something unusual for me. Most of my usual dreams were nonsense, or vanished from my mind seconds after I opened my eyes, only leaving behind traces of emotion no longer connected to anything. I scribbled down these nocturnal visions idly, more for my own curiosity about the experience than any real drive to document every twinge or quirk the potion elicited. I would have plenty of time for that over the months ahead.

On the fourth day, it finally clicked that something _was_ different. Though my senses were heightened, the associated irritation was less than usual. I could sit in the Great Hall with hundreds of chattering students, or listen to the scritching of two dozen quills on parchment in class, without wanting to get up and leave.

By the fifth day, when I would usually start pacing, I was still able to sit and teach, satisfying my wanderlust with a brisk walk around the grounds before dinner. And at my usual bedtime, I actually felt ready for sleep.

****************************************

I could feel him watching me across the classroom, his eyes scorching me with their heat. It was highly distracting. I was supposed to be talking about Kappas, but I kept wandering off topic. 

A large wardrobe stood in the middle of the room, amongst the desks, but I knew I couldn’t open it because Lily and James were hiding in there, waiting to jump out and surprise Harry for his birthday. “We missed it again, you see,” James had explained, before shutting the door.

Harry was playing a very loud game of Exploding Snap with Ron Weasley and ignoring everything I was trying to teach them. 

Hermione Granger kept interrupting to correct me. I couldn’t really blame her. After all, my treacherous mouth had just insisted that Kappas were found almost exclusively in the Sahara Desert. Eventually Hermione got fed up with this. 

“Honestly! You’re _hopeless!_ Even Professor Lockhart was better than _you!_ ” she remarked in disgust, before standing up and beginning to teach the class herself, which instantly became attentive.

At a bit of a loose end, I wandered through the classroom and out the door, straight into the Gryffindor dormitory. I could sense him behind me, and turned. 

He was in his Quidditch kit, obviously having just finished a practice. His hair was ruffled from the wind, and there were sweat marks on the cloth where it touched him. He wound his arms around me tightly, and then his tongue was in my mouth and I was melting.

“You shouldn’t be here,” I panted when I pulled back to catch my breath. “The Dementors…”

He snorted. “Perfect Prefect Moony,” he teased, tweaking the badge on my robes with a finger. “Heaven forbid you should ever do something that involves breaking the rules.”

“Hey!” I cried indignantly. “Who was it who thought up the Marauder’s Map in the first place and found the spells to make it? You wouldn’t have got up to half the stuff you did if it wasn’t for me.”

“Ah, but lawlessness by association does not a true Marauder make,” he intoned seriously, with a bright sparkle in his eye. “You have to be a bad boy of your own account. You have to misbehave.” His lips quirked at that, and my heart pounded as if trying to escape my chest. I was suddenly very, very hard.

“So,” he purred, loosening my school tie and sliding it from my collar, “have you been naughty, Moony?”

The breath caught in my throat as his hand trailed down my chest and delicately stroked the bulge in my pants with only the very tips of his fingers. I bit my lip to stifle a cry as my cock twitched in response. It had been so long since I had felt that touch, and it was almost over right then.

“Well?” he drawled again, and the beautiful hand stopped and withdrew a little. My traitorous body leaned forward against his, seeking it. My eyes begged. At that moment I would do anything, say anything. “Yes,” I breathed. “I have been a very bad boy.”

He eyed me sceptically. “I don’t believe you,” he concluded. “Remus Lupin break a rule? You _always_ have a spare quill on you, wherever you go. Even your receiving blankets were tweed. I think I shall have to see some proof of said depravity before I will consent to continue any further.”

“Proof?”

“Yes, _proof_ ,” he smirked.

I grabbed him firmly and he trembled, letting out a deep, satisfying groan. “Proof like _that?_ ” He nodded hesitantly, his eyes glassy and not quite focussed. “Yes, I’m pretty sure I remember something against groping in the dormitory. There was a list of rules in the prefect’s handbook,” I mused, my thumb idly stroking the head of his cock through his trousers. I could already feel a drop of moisture soaking the cloth.

“… not enough…” he gasped. “…Teacher’s Pet…Perfect Prefect…”

I pushed him back until he hit the door, then I was on my knees in front of him, slowly taking his cock into my mouth. He inhaled sharply, his hands gripping my hair. I pulled back, just as slowly. “Do good boys do _that?_ ” I murmured, my lips brushing the tip as I spoke. He shook his head frantically, and mumbled something indecipherable. 

I swallowed him up again, sucking hard, revelling in his involuntary thrusts, his sounds of ecstasy, his hands holding me in place so hard it almost hurt. It didn’t take long. He was as eager as I was, and when he did come, it was with a protracted scream that surely the whole tower heard. That didn’t worry me, for some reason. I was on my feet again, kissing him with renewed vigour, as he pushed me back onto a nearby bed, fumbling with my clothes.

He was mumbling obscenities between frenetic, probing kisses. Finally naked skin brushed naked skin, and I whimpered. I pushed against him, only able to articulate, “ _…please…_ ” Good boy that I was, I always seemed to ask politely, even in the throes of passion. This small word seemed to drive him into a frenzy. He was lying on top of me, his leg pushed between mine, his hand closing around me. After that, it was just a blur of nearly unbearable sensation. My hips were bucking of their own accord. I could feel Sirius, hard again, rubbing himself desperately against me. The incandescent white heat was building…

I awoke suddenly, in my bed, in my chambers at Hogwarts. My erection was huge, painful and straining, and I was well and truly alone. I brought myself to a blinding orgasm with no effort, sobbing helplessly through the afterglow until I fell back asleep.

***********************************************

The next day, I was filled with hyperactive energy, though not at my usual manic, fevered level. I dealt with this twitchiness by taking my classes outdoors for the afternoon, under the excuse of enjoying the last of the sunshine before autumn closed in with a vengeance. The children seemed to enjoy the change of pace, and their laughter and good spirits combined with the weather helped to chase away the shadows left from the night before. It was always best to not go into the Change with lingering negative feelings or worries. Though it was unavoidable at times, those Changes always seemed to be the worst.

I avoided dinner in the Great Hall, knowing that the night before the Change even the potion would not make the riot of light, smell and sound bearable. I had arranged at the very start of term for my dinner to be sent up directly to my chambers for the nights before, on and after the full moon. My only visitor that evening was Severus.

He showed more interest in me than he had on previous days, examining my eyes and inside my mouth, and taking my pulse. It was quite a surreal experience, even if I did know that it was merely scientific curiosity about his potion’s effects rather than actual concern. Once he seemed satisfied, he straightened up.

“I shall bring up the final dose at five o’clock tomorrow,” he intoned. “When I do, I would suggest that you lock the door behind me and try to rest. Though I have no doubt that you will ignore whatever sensible advice I give and do whatever you please.”

I bit back an angry retort. Resting was the last thing that was possible this close to the Change. It fact, it was probably only the tempering effect of the Wolfsbane that allowed me to resist attacking him. Instead, I turned my eyes on him quite fiercely. I was gratified to see him take a tiny step back. I knew the wolf was quite close to the surface now, and evidently he could see it. Good.

“Thank you,” I said, though my words lacked their usual mildness, and came out through gritted teeth. Severus left with a quickened step and without his usual sneer. I felt a fierce kind of satisfaction.

When Severus brought me my potion the next night, only hours before the full moon, he said nothing to me at all. I was already pacing, itchy at my confinement. When he entered, my wand was out and at his throat in an instant, and it took a couple of seconds before I knew him and lowered it, returning to my pacing with a snarl. This was not a good time for an old enemy to be standing in my presence, and he was aware of it. There had been a glimmer in his eyes of something like fear when I had been staring at him, unrecognising, the tip of my wand pressing in where his pulse jumped. For a few seconds, he smelled like Prey.

He held out the goblet and I took it when I passed him in my perambulations, swallowing it in a deep, sickening draught. I paused, long enough to hand the cup back. “Thank you,” I ground out, though words were difficult to wrangle when I could feel the moon’s magnetic pull so strongly and everything was pain. He didn’t speak, but he inclined his head ever so slightly in response, before sweeping out in a flourish of black fabric.

I sealed the door behind him with a Locking Charm and Muffliato. The last was as much a necessity as the first. The Wolfsbane didn’t dull the pain of the Change, after all. In a few short hours, I was screaming as my body twisted and writhed in its grip, then I lay, panting on the floor until the agony lessened to a dull, throbbing ache.

I was Wolf. I knew I was Remus, but more importantly, I was Wolf. Climbing to my feet, I shook out my thick coat from my nose to the tufted tip of my bushy tail. I could see in colour, but more important than that were the smells, which described my surroundings in layers and depths mere sight could never capture.

The rolls of parchment on my desk were covered in traces of the scents of the children who had written them. I jumped up to rest my front feet against the edge of the desk and sniffed deeply. Hermione’s scent was on at least three scrolls; her own, but also Harry’s and Ron’s. My teeth bared in a wolfish grin at that. I could smell the chocolate hidden in my desk drawer, the mud on my boots nearby and, near the door, something chemical which I assumed had been walked in on Severus’s shoes from the Potions Labs in the dungeons.

I did a full circuit of the room, taking my time, exploring every crevice and object with my excellent nose. Coming to a sudden halt in front of the window, I caught sight of the moon, reflecting her glory across the surface of the lake as she peered over the surrounding hills. I howled a serenade with a savage joy, singing a song of hatred and adoration to my mistress.

When she had risen high and grown smaller as she reached her zenith, I crooned my last note and trotted to the hearthrug. There, I stretched out like a lion, basking in the glow, and dozing.

**********************************************

The next morning, I climbed into bed with an effort, only bothering to unlock the door because I knew how foolish it would be to leave myself locked in while sleeping off the effects of the Change and a potion I had never before tried. I didn’t wake until that evening, and when I did it was to the sight of Professor Dumbledore and Severus standing over me.

“I’m sorry to wake you, Remus,” Dumbledore began, “but we needed to know if you will have recovered sufficiently by tomorrow morning to teach. If not, Severus will substitute, and you can return to teaching on Tuesday.”

I stretched tentatively, wincing as joints popped and cracked with the strain. “Yes,” I whispered hoarsely. “I just need to sleep, that’s all.”

Dumbledore smiled apologetically. “Severus must make some observations of your vital signs as well, I believe, in case he needs to make any adjustments when he produces the next batch of Wolfsbane.”

I sighed, but nodded. With an effort, assisted by Dumbledore, I dragged my reluctant body into a sitting position. I didn’t get up any further. Not only was I too weak, but I was naked beneath the blanket. Clothes had seemed unimportant at dawn, when the bed was so conveniently nearby.

Severus poked and prodded me for some time, before clucking in a fair but unintentional imitation of Madame Pomfrey. “You need to eat,” he admonished. He summoned the tray that had obviously appeared not long beforehand on my desk, and sat it down on my lap. 

“You’re not going to try to feed me now, are you?” I asked Severus in a feeble attempt at a joke that came out sounding tetchy. “I may be exhausted, but I could still break your arm with one hand right now, and _I will do it_ if you come anywhere near me with a spoonful of chicken soup.”

Dumbledore chuckled, and Severus looked murderous, but his lips twitched slightly spasmodically as though suppressing a smile. “Hardly,” he said, drier than dust.

Dumbledore patted the blankets over my knee kindly, before standing up to leave, Severus trailing in his wake like a second shadow.


	7. Chapter Six: A Bone of Contention

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The meaning behind a meeting is misconstrued.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter contains dialogue and situations originally created by and belonging by copyright to JK Rowling. Some lines of dialogue are taken and used verbatim from Chapter Eight (The Flight of the Fat Lady) of Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban (p. 167-171 of the Bloomsbury adult cover pbk edition). However, the arrangement and descriptive passages surrounding any copyrighted dialogue, and any additional dialogue not contained in JK Rowling's work, is my own.

Though my first mid-term Change had fallen conveniently on a weekend, the next would definitely clash with my teaching duties. Severus was put on notice to fill in for me on Thursday and possibly Friday following Hallowe’en.

The Saturday of Hallowe’en dawned bright and cold. At breakfast the Great Hall was buzzing with excitement. It was the first Hogsmeade trip of the school year, and with the feast to come, the atmosphere was highly charged.

The castle emptied rapidly after the meal was done with, leaving the halls and corridors almost eerily quiet. The remaining students seemed to have gone to the library or their common rooms to study, or taken themselves outdoors into the bright (if rather brisk) weather. The first snow of the season would soon begin to fall, but before that happened there were leaf piles to be constructed and jumped into, and a rather avid bunch of first and second years had gone down to watch with awe as Hagrid carved the last of his carriage-sized pumpkins for tonight’s Feast.

It was with a touch of surprise then, that I noticed Harry amble past my open office doorway, looking utterly despondent. I called him back. “What are you doing? Where are Ron and Hermione?”

“Hogsmeade,” he remarked, in such a tone that I immediately understood. Harry had not stayed behind voluntarily, and he was miserable and at a loose end, shut up in the castle alone. 

“Ah,” I commented, before quickly changing my approach. This could be an excellent opportunity to speak to Harry one on one, if I could only handle it delicately. “Why don’t you come in? I’ve just taken delivery of a Grindylow for our next lesson.”

“A what?” Harry asked, clearly oblivious to what exactly a Grindylow was and how he should react, but he was following me into my office and peering into the murky tank with interest nevertheless.

“Water demon,” I clarified. “We shouldn’t have much difficulty with him, not after the Kappas. The trick is to break his grip.” I pointed at the specimen. “You notice the abnormally large fingers? Strong, but very brittle.”

Harry studied the Grindylow for a few more minutes, while I clutched at straws for something else to say. “Cup of tea?” My wandering eyes had found a solution. “I was just thinking of making one.” It wasn’t really a lie. Harry agreed a little hesitantly. “Sit down.” 

A moment later a spark of mischief flared up. Harry was too grave, and something inside couldn’t help but try and tweak him into a lighter mood. “I’ve only got teabags, I’m afraid,” I began, rummaging in the caddy, “but I daresay you’ve had enough of tea leaves?”

Harry met my eyes with a blink of surprise. “How do you know about that?”

“Professor McGonagall told me,” I admitted, passing him a steaming mug. “You’re not worried, are you?”

Sybill Trelawney’s ‘predictions’ were considered something of a joke in the Staff Room, but a thirteen year old might not know to take her ramblings with a pinch of salt. Harry’s vehement negative showed that he was bothered by it, but probably more annoyed than frightened. However, a frown lingered in the furrows on his brow.

“Anything worrying you, Harry?”

“No.” He sounded almost sulky. I was just debating whether to probe, when he apparently changed his mind. “Yes.”

He set his cup down on the edge of the desk, and his eyes met mine forcefully. I knew I was about to be weighed and judged in some way, and I hoped that I wouldn’t mess it up catastrophically. Harry didn’t seem like the sort to give many second chances. 

“You know that day we fought the Boggart?”

I knew instantly where this was going. My worst fear had been put on display there, for the whole class to see. I wondered if he had worked it out on his own, or if Hermione had connected the dots for him. “Yes?” I prompted reluctantly, knowing that the inevitable scene must play itself out.

“Why didn’t you let me fight it?”

The question was so unexpected I was completely wrong footed. “I would have thought that was obvious, Harry.” 

Harry looked just as shocked as me. “Why?”

I hoped that I didn’t look as perplexed as I felt. “Well… I assumed that if the Boggart faced you, it would assume the shape of Lord Voldemort.” A series of complex emotions ran over Harry’s features like oil over the surface of water, but the main one was…surprise. Not a _confirming_ sort of surprise, either. Harry was baffled.

I felt a need to justify my actions somehow. “Clearly, I was wrong. But I didn’t think it a good idea for Lord Voldemort to materialise in the staff room. I imagined that people would panic.” Apologetic though I was, I couldn’t keep the dry tone from my reasoning. Sarcasm and irony had ever been my fallbacks in times of stress.

Harry seemed to relax a little. “I did think of Voldemort at first. But then I - I remembered those Dementors.”

A rush of warmth washed over me, and I couldn’t help but smile. “I see. Well, well…I’m impressed.” Harry seemed more than a little stunned, so I elaborated. “That suggests that what you fear most of all is - fear. Very wise, Harry.”

This statement seemed to confuse Harry further, and he didn’t respond; drinking his tea deeply instead. His pained expression that day in class combined with the incident on the train at the beginning of term formed a complete picture in my head. I threw out my next question, knowing before I even spoke it that I was correct. “So you’ve been thinking that I didn’t believe you capable of fighting the Boggart?”

“Well…yeah.” Harry’s face had brightened, as if some weight had been lifted from him. He seemed suddenly much more eager. “Professor Lupin, you know the Dementors - ”

Whatever Harry had been going to say about Dementors was cut off by a knock at the door. And the person who entered at my call was Severus Snape.

The atmosphere, which had been almost warm, instantly chilled to match the temperature in the grounds outside. Severus and Harry were staring at each other like strange cats, as though any moment they would begin hissing and scratching at each other, the goblet of potion momentarily forgotten.

“Ah, Severus, thanks very much,” I said, in an attempt to break the impasse. “Could you leave it here on the desk for me?”

Severus’s eyes were now darting between Harry and me, suspicious and cold. He had obviously come to some sort of instant conclusion about this friendly little meeting. “I was just showing Harry my Grindylow,” I offered, gesturing towards the creature in the tank.

“Fascinating,” Severus said, completely ignoring the Grindylow. “You should drink that directly,” he said, referring to the potion, but I could tell that it was an empty statement. His head was still ticking off reasons why I would be hosting the son of one of my oldest friends for tea, and ascribing a paranoid angle to each.

“Yes, yes I will,” I confirmed, equally emptily. He knew I would drink it. 

“I made an entire cauldronful, if you need more.” He was just delaying now, and I knew it. He wanted to know what I was going to tell Harry, how much Harry knew, how much I had told Harry about those times, twenty years ago.

“I should probably take some again tomorrow,” I replied, continuing this strange verbal dance. “Thanks very much, Severus.”

It was a dismissal, and he knew it. “Not at all,” he said, leaving with a poisonous spark in his eyes. I turned my attention back to Harry, who was scrutinising the smoking goblet mistrustfully. 

“Professor Snape has very kindly concocted a potion for me. I have never been much of a potion-brewer and this one is particularly complex.” Harry fidgeted worriedly. I wrinkled my nose a little at the fumes as I lifted it. “A pity sugar makes it useless,” I remarked, forcing down a sip.

Harry’s anxiety as I swallowed the potion was palpable. “Why-?” he asked abortively.

I tried to reassure him. His clear dislike of Severus wasn’t making this any easier. “I’ve been feeling a bit off-colour. This potion is the only thing that helps. I am very lucky to be working alongside Professor Snape; there aren’t many wizards who are up to making it.” I took another vile gulp.

Rather than calming Harry, this statement seemed to positively alarm him. “Professor Snape’s really interested in the Dark Arts,” he said in a rush.

“Really?” I asked placidly, following this with yet another acrid mouthful.

Harry looked rather wild, as if he thought I was in immediate danger. “Some people reckon - some people reckon he’d do anything to get the Defence Against the Dark Arts job.” His eyes were full of desperate warnings. Perhaps he thought he was being subtle, but it was almost laughably obvious that he believed Severus was trying to poison me. 

I remained unflappable, finishing the last drop in the glass with a grimace. “Disgusting. Well, Harry, I’d better get back to work. I’ll see you at the feast later.”

Harry was still watching me as though he thought I might turn green or drop to the floor in convulsions. “Right,” he said, unconvinced that my calm demeanour wasn’t some form of blatant stupidity. He dithered for a little as though he was considering actually telling me so outright, but thankfully left instead.

I just hoped that when I failed to turn up for my class on Thursday he didn’t accuse Severus to his face of being responsible. I couldn’t even begin to imagine the fallout if he did, but it would definitely be messy.


	8. Chapter Seven: Grim Encounters

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hallowe'en, and the days that follow, are Black.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter contains dialogue and situations originally created by and belonging by copyright to JK Rowling. Some lines of dialogue are taken and used verbatim from Chapter Eight (The Flight of the Fat Lady) and Chapter Nine (Grim Defeat) of Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban (p. 174-175 and p. 202-205 of the Bloomsbury adult cover pbk edition). However, the arrangement and descriptive passages surrounding any copyrighted dialogue, and any additional dialogue not contained in JK Rowling's work, is my own.

I made rather a big show of being hale and hearty at the Feast that evening. Harry, Ron and Hermione’s anxious staring combined with another escalation in Severus’s glares down the table in my direction was rather wearing. He had obviously not forgiven me for talking to Harry that afternoon. It verged on the ridiculous, being the centre of all this melodrama, and I kept having to repress a mad urge to laugh a little hysterically.

I ended up ignoring all four of them and having a lively discussion with Filius Flitwick. He was working on a thesis about an obscure subcategory of Experimental Charms, and was clearly thrilled to find someone who not only was willing to listen, but knew a little of the theory behind it. I had been a better than fair Charms student and Filius was an excellent dinner companion. The result was that I nearly forgot about my Imminent Death by poison.

I was rather jovial, and even a little tipsy, by the time the Feast wound to a close. The alcohol’s effects would dissipate as soon as I got to my feet and began walking back to my chambers (an unfortunate result of my metabolism this close to the Full Moon), but the glow was contributing significantly to my good humour. Unfortunately, it was all about to come to a crashing end.

A terrified Gryffindor student brought word of some sort of problem. He wasn’t very clear on what it was, only that the Head Boy had sent him, and that it was serious. Dumbledore set off at once. I only hesitated for a few moments before following in his wake, Minerva and Severus with me. None of us spoke. I had a very bad feeling about the summons, and was suddenly completely sober. It was rather like being ducked in an icy pool of water.

My nervousness wasn’t helped by the ominous signs on our walk up the stairs. The paintings were terribly upset, the ghosts agitated. We eventually reached the corridor outside the entrance to the Gryffindor Common Room. It was crammed with a silent, frightened mass of students. The reason for their being outside was immediately obvious. The Fat Lady’s portrait had been brutally vandalised.

Dumbledore’s grave face turned to us. “We need to find her. Professor McGonagall, please go to Mr Filch at once and tell him to search every painting in the castle for the Fat Lady.”

A rude chuckle greeted this suggestion. “You’ll be lucky!” Peeves taunted from above.

“What do you mean, Peeves?” Dumbledore asked patiently.

Peeves was thrilled with the chaos brewing below, but he answered Dumbledore plainly enough. “Ashamed, Your Headship, sir. Doesn’t want to be seen. She’s a horrible mess. Saw her running through a landscape up on the fourth floor, sir, dodging between the trees. Crying something dreadful. Poor thing.” Peeves seemed absolutely delighted.

“Did she say who did it?” asked Dumbledore, his voice still level.

Peeves seemed to glow incandescent with smugness. “Oh, yes, Professorhead. He got very angry when she wouldn’t let him in, you see. Nasty temper he’s got, that Sirius Black.”

An hysterical twittering broke out amongst the students. My heart dropped into my stomach. I’m sure my face turned white; I could feel the colour bleaching from it. Severus’s glare was stabbing into me like knives. Right then, I couldn’t care less.

Numbly, I helped herd the children back down to the Great Hall, and listened as Dumbledore co-ordinated a search of the school and grounds. It took me a few moments to realise that I hadn’t been given an area to search.

“Remus, I would like you to go back to your rooms for the night,” Dumbledore said to me quietly, once the other teachers began spreading out. I opened my mouth to protest and he cut me off quickly, his stern look brooking no opposition. “I have full confidence in you, never doubt that. Harry and the other students will be protected by the wards in the Great Hall, but your safety is paramount, too.” After a pause, I nodded, though I was far from happy. 

Dumbledore seemed relieved that I had acquiesced. “Thank you, Remus. I understand this is a very difficult situation for you, but right now, we have no other choice.” I avoided his earnest gaze. I didn’t want to heighten an already tense situation by behaving like a five-year-old. 

“Minerva? Would you please accompany Remus back to his chambers, and make sure they are secure?”

I followed Professor McGonagall silently and with some resentment. After conducting a quick search of my quarters, she left, ordering me to lock myself in.

I cast a Locking Charm on the door, then, after a moment’s consideration, an Impeturbable Charm and a modified Shield Charm on it and on the fireplace and window as well. When I was done, I could feel the magic crawling on my skin, and hear the high pitched hum of the makeshift wards with my over-sensitive ears. I decided I had officially succumbed to paranoia.

Restless, I caught myself pacing at least four days early. It didn’t make any sense. If it _was_ Sirius, he had taken a ludicrous risk even coming near Hogwarts. Why come inside, then attempt to break into the Gryffindor Common Room when everyone was in the Great Hall?

I dissected the entire event from half a dozen different angles, but it still didn’t add up. Perhaps Sirius really was insane, and his actions only made sense to himself. 

The attack on the Fat Lady frightened me with its savageness. Although she wasn’t _alive_ in the sense of a human being, she was a sentient magical construct capable of thoughts and feelings. It wasn’t a big step from destroying a painting that got in his way to killing a human. I admitted to myself with a sigh that Dumbledore’s caution was right. It wasn’t his fault that I despised being caged.

Despite the fact that it was very late and I was tired, I didn’t go to bed. I sat down in my armchair in front of the fire, curling my knees up to my chest like a child, and watched the flames burn with a heat I could not feel through the shimmer of the wards.

**************************************************

I opened my eyes, and he was standing in front of me. He was dirty and ragged, and there was something desperate in his face.

“How did you get in here?” I asked guardedly.

He waved his hand carelessly. “I was always here.” He was holding my wand, I noted, blearily.

His eyes roamed tirelessly over everything in the room. “So, this is what you are now. This is what you do.” There was disdain in his voice. He had never understood my scholarly ambitions. 

“Yes.”

He snorted. The sudden exhalation started a ragged, hollow coughing fit that took him quite a while to control. I twitched in my chair, and suddenly the wand was pointed steadily at me again, and his face was hard. “Don‘t you dare.” 

Obediently I froze, easing back. There were a tense few seconds, where I tried very hard not to breathe. There was a good chance I could win in fight, even while he was armed, but it wasn’t worth the risk. Sirius had always been a superb dueller, and in his current state, he wouldn’t be likely to mess about with niceties. I suspected, given his allegiances, he’d Unforgivable first and talk later. So I played the good hostage.

“So,” he began again, mirroring my pacing of a few hours ago, “where is he?” His voice was a hiss, his eyes fever bright.

“He’s safe,” I said, bracing myself for an outburst or a blow. “He’s well protected. You’d do better to leave. You’ll not get your hands on him tonight.”

He looked furious and quite wild. “But don’t you see? I have to find him!” He ran a hand through his matted hair. “I have to kill him! Then everything will be alright!”

I regarded this strange, demented being with the face of my friend. “No, Sirius. I don’t see,” I answered quietly. “I don’t see how more deaths could possibly fix anything.”

He stared, utterly baffled. “It’ll make _everything_ better!” A glow of fervour overtook his features. “I won’t have to run anymore. You’ll be my friend again.”

At this, he looked so pitifully hopeful that I almost forgot that he was a mass murderer that had killed my best friends who was holding me at wand point, threatening to kill their son. Almost.

“You’ll always have to run, Sirius. Always. They won’t stop. Killing him won’t solve anything.”

“Yes, it will!” he insisted, frustrated. He had stopped pacing before. He started again, looking quite mad as he gesticulated. “If I do this, it will fix everything with Lily and James! It’ll make it _right_ again.”

I felt bitterness and anger rise up in my throat. I forgot that I was the submissive one in this situation, forgot about my own safety. I let the Wolf rise to my eyes, and he flinched back. “You think killing him can help Lily and James? You’re insane! Nothing, _nothing_ , can help them. They’re _dead!_ Dead, and it’s all your fault! Your fault I’m alone! Your fault that I’m stuck in this room like a rat in a trap!”

I was standing over him, shouting now. I had my wand back in my hand, and I was watching him cowering on the hearthrug. “It’s _your_ fault I feel this way! Your fault I can’t stop loving you!”

He was gibbering now, making small, frantic noises which might have been pleas for mercy. I didn’t care. I raised my wand, relishing the fear in his eyes. “ _Crucio!_ ”

His screams filled my ears. I felt a savage sort of pleasure. The curse light was bright, and it seemed to be getting brighter. I raised my hand to shield my face…

I blinked. The weak November sun was streaming in the narrow window. Every muscle in my body was cramped from sleeping in the chair. My wand was on the desk where I had left it the night before, and my hearthrug was innocently bare of escaped fugitives.

I only just made it to my tiny bathroom before being horribly sick. If I was pale and jumpy at breakfast that morning, nobody else seemed to notice it. The night before had unsettled everyone.

************************************************

The Change later that week was understandably savage. When it became clear that this was going to be the case, Severus arranged for my potion to be sent up with my dinner by the house elves. 

I didn’t sleep at all on Wednesday night. I had begun pacing just before dinner; doing my best to wear a path in the floorboards. My teeth were grinding, and I kept getting surges of adrenaline that made me bite my lips and hands. The taste of blood wound my tension up another notch.

It was just as well that Severus didn’t bring me my potion in person on Thursday. Or that no one else visited, for that matter. The steadily worsening weather outside didn’t help; the changing barometric pressure made the pain much worse. The more pain, the greater my agitation. I locked myself in at dawn rather than mid afternoon, and even then my hands were shaking so badly I could hardly perform the charms.

At some point the following day, I was vaguely aware of being lifted from the floor by several pairs of hands and tucked into bed. A cup was placed at my lips and I sipped from it reflexively, almost choking on the liquid; water, icy cold. It was drawn away. I must have made some noise of protest because it was returned and I slowly drank my fill, before being eased back onto the pillows. I sank into oblivion again, the last recognisable sensation being a cool, gentle hand on my brow.

When I became conscious again, I was told that when I hadn’t appeared or been heard from by late afternoon on Friday, Dumbledore had become concerned, knowing that the lead-up to the Moon had been hard on me. Along with Professors Flitwick and McGonagall he had broken the charms on my door, to find me collapsed on the floor. Apart from the usual exhaustion, I had hypothermia from lying nude on the stone for nearly half a day, too far from the fire. 

Poppy Pomfrey was visiting me every hour or so; evidently concerned, but keeping her scolding to a bare minimum. It helped that I took the Pepper Up she pressed on me, and half a dozen other concoctions, without protest. I assumed that Severus had been in at some point or another, but it must have been while I was insensible not long after I was found, because I did not recall it.

As it was, it took me until late Saturday afternoon to rise from my bed and move carefully about my chambers, unbalanced and frail like an invalid. 

By Monday morning, despite Poppy’s protests, I felt well enough to teach again. I’d marked every bit of homework and every essay I had waiting on my desk, and I was going stir crazy stuck in my room. 

Once my Third Years had filed in for their class, I was hit with an immediate wave of protests about Severus’s brief reign of terror in my absence. He had berated and intimidated them, and proceeded to ignore everything they told him about the curriculum to date. Instead, he had chosen his own lesson topic, and set a diabolical amount of homework on - what else? - werewolves.

I smiled gently, reassuring them. “Don’t worry. I’ll speak to Professor Snape. You don’t have to do the essay.” 

Only Hermione Granger seemed dismayed by this sudden change of fortune. 

The lesson that followed was pleasant, and the class unusually polite and attentive. Perhaps they were counting on their exemplary behaviour to sustain my constitution and prevent further need for substitution. It was actually quite flattering.

When the students began to file out, on an impulse, I called Harry back. He looked pale and miserable; not surprising, considering he‘d spent most of the weekend, like me, flat on his back having potions shoved down his throat. “I heard about the match, and I’m sorry about your broomstick. Is there any chance of fixing it?”

Harry visibly winced. “No. The tree smashed it to bits.”

I felt a surge of irrational guilt, and sighed. “They planted the Whomping Willow the same year that I arrived at Hogwarts. People used to play a game, trying to get near enough to touch the trunk. In the end, a boy called Davey Gudgeon nearly lost an eye, and we were forbidden to go near it.” _And I felt horrible every time I saw his face for months afterwards._ “No broomstick would have stood a chance,” I finished apologetically.

“Did you hear about the Dementors too? Harry’s voice was forced, the tone tight. I met his eyes and there was bitterness there, a resignation. 

“Yes, I did. I don’t think any of us have ever seen Professor Dumbledore that angry.” I could say that with confidence. Even in the aftermath of Sirius’s prank on Snape, even during the war, nothing compared to the look of cold fury I had seen on Dumbledore’s face as he sat at with me in my chambers, by the fire, and told me about the game. “They have been growing restless for some time … furious at his refusal to let them inside the grounds … I suppose they were the reason you fell?”

“Yes.” Harry’s face contorted for a moment, then an explosion of anger and pain erupted from him. “ _Why?_ ” he demanded. “Why do they affect me so much? Am I just - ?”

I cut him off. “It has nothing to do with weakness,” I said firmly. “Dementors affect you worse than the others because there are horrors in your past that the others don’t have.” 

Now that this conversation, which had been inevitable since the encounter on the Hogwarts Express, was actually happening, I wished to be anywhere else than here. But there was no reprieve. 

“Dementors are amongst the foulest creatures to walk this earth,” I continued. “They infest the darkest, filthiest places, they glory in decay and despair, they drain peace, hope and happiness out of the air around them. Even Muggles feel their presence, though they can’t see them. Get too near a Dementor and every good feeling, every happy memory, will be sucked out of you. If it can, the Dementor will feed on you long enough to reduce you to something like itself - soulless and evil. You’ll be left with nothing but the worst experiences of your life. And the worst that has happened to _you_ , Harry, is enough to make anyone fall off their broom. You have nothing to be ashamed of.”

Harry was looking downwards. He swallowed convulsively, before saying in a strangled, little voice, “When they get near me - I can hear Voldemort murdering my mum.” 

I felt a strange, icy chill envelop me, and a tingling in my fingertips. I almost reached out to hug him, to comfort him, but something stopped me. He didn’t know who I was, apart from his teacher. He didn’t know that Lily and James had been my family, and that their loss had shattered any illusions I still had about the world. And I didn’t know how a child that had been raised the way he obviously had would react to physical contact. I didn’t think I could stand to see James’s son flinch from my touch; not in this moment, not right now.

“Why did they have to come to the match?” he muttered. It could have sounded petulant and sulky. It didn’t. Harry instead sounded tired and resentful, like a much older man who had been knocked down once too many times by life. Like myself, all those months ago, talking to Dumbledore. _What is this, Albus? Some sort of group therapy? The broken healing the broken, bonding over shared grief?_

I closed my briefcase, responding matter-of-factly, “They’re getting hungry. Dumbledore won’t let them into the school, so their supply of human prey has dried up … I don’t think they could resist the large crowd around the Quidditch pitch. All that excitement … emotions running high … it was their idea of a feast.”

“Azkaban must be terrible.”

I clenched my jaw, nodding. “The fortress is set on a tiny island, way out to sea, but they don’t need walls and water to keep the prisoners in, not when they’re all trapped inside their own heads, incapable of a single cheerful thought. Most of them go mad within weeks.”

I should have been expecting the next question. I wasn’t.

“But Sirius Black escaped from them. He got away…”

I fumbled picking up my case; fingers suddenly nerveless. Bending to retrieve it, I hoped that Harry hadn’t seen my face when I heard his name. “Yes. Black must have found a way to fight them.” I was amazed at my voice, so calm and steady, so at odds with the turmoil within. “I wouldn’t have believed it possible … Dementors are supposed to drain a wizard of his powers if he is left with them too long …”

“ _You_ made that Dementor on the train back off,” Harry interjected. I could see his brain ticking over, almost hear cogs turning as he wrestled with this unexplored angle.

“There are - certain defences one can use,” I began hesitantly. “But there was only one Dementor on the train. The more there are, the more difficult it becomes to resist.”

Harry at once became eager. “What defences? Can you teach me?”

“I don’t pretend to be an expert on fighting Dementors, Harry - quite the contrary…” I was back-pedalling, showing my cowardice, and I knew it.

“But if the Dementors come to another Quidditch match, I need to be able to fight them - ” 

Right then as he spoke, I knew my resistance was futile. Harry’s eyes were fierce, and his jaw set firm. He had never looked more like his mother than at that moment. Lily Evans - The Immovable Object, James had dubbed her at some point midway through our Fifth Year. Ever humble, he titled himself complimentarily as The Irresistible Force.

And here I was, facing yet another Immovable Object. Harry stood unwavering, and his determination broke the remains of my resistance. “Well … all right. I’ll try and help.” Harry’s eyes flashed triumphant. “But it’ll have to wait until next term, I’m afraid. I have a lot to do before the holidays. I chose a very inconvenient time to fall ill.”


	9. Chapter Eight: Searching Within

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry's lessons begin.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I found backups hidden on another of my computers for chapters 8-10, so we're back on track. This chapter is pretty canon heavy, but contains a couple of original moments I love.
> 
> For hpuckle, for (just) surviving my brutal betaing of her poor story.
> 
> This chapter contains dialogue and situations originally created by and belonging by copyright to JK Rowling. Some lines of dialogue are taken and used verbatim from Chapter Twelve (The Patronus) of Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban (p. 257-263 of the Bloomsbury adult cover pbk edition). However, the arrangement and descriptive passages surrounding any copyrighted dialogue, and any additional dialogue not contained in JK Rowling's work, is my own.

The next month passed fairly uneventfully; which was a pleasant relief after the ups and downs of the beginning of the school year. As a result my next Change, over Christmas, was much less traumatic. When I saw Harry in classes and from a distance in the Great Hall, he too seemed more relaxed and brighter since our discussion. 

The holidays gave me an excellent period of time to recharge. Teaching was much more intense than I’d ever given it credit for before doing it myself. The day was far from ended when classes finished in the afternoon, or paused for weekends. I easily spent as much time marking work and formulating lesson plans after hours as I did standing in front of a class. A Change would always set me behind for a few days, and the exhaustion that lingered was not conducive to spending productive hours straining my eyes over essays.

By the time the students returned for the new term, I felt much better. Harry wasted no time reminding me of the help I had promised to give him regarding the Dementors, and I reassured him that I hadn’t forgotten. I gave him a time and place to meet later in the week, then was rather preoccupied throughout dinner as I pondered the problem of what to do in these impromptu lessons. I already knew the magic he would need to learn. The problem was - could Harry learn it? And could he produce it powerfully enough when faced with his greatest fear?

Something clicked into place, almost audibly, as I sat with my spoon poised over the trifle in my bowl. The solution was so obvious that I couldn’t understand why it hadn’t occurred to me sooner. 

The next morning during a free period, I set out in search of a Boggart.

**************************************************

The next two days were filled with dust, dirt and cobwebs, and some very embarrassed teenagers getting flushed out of dark corners.

“Ten point from Ravenclaw, Boot. And ten points from Ravenclaw for you, too, Goldstein,” I drawled, as the students hastily attempted to straighten their clothing. If their faces were glowing any brighter, I wouldn’t have needed the Lumos spell at all. As they slunk past me out of the broom cupboard, I couldn’t resist murmuring quietly, “Try behind the tapestry of Maud the Maleficent on the Fifth Floor next time. Much more discreet.” Their blank, stunned looks were priceless, and I repressed a very silly urge to giggle. After all, what was the point in holding a position of power without corrupting the next generation at least a little?

In a large, ancient, magic-soaked castle swarming with children, Boggarts and other troublesome creatures should have been plentiful. However, some clever warding was efficient at repelling all but the most persistent pests and the staff dealt quickly with anything that ventured into the main living areas, so I rapidly found myself reduced to poking through abandoned classrooms packed with junk, storage cupboards and some of the more forbidding areas of the dungeons.

I was at my wit’s end, and just considering mobilising all the house elves to assist when I found what I‘d been searching for. Argus Filch and Mrs Norris stood by and watched suspiciously as I removed the Boggart from the filing cabinet in his office into a waiting trunk. I could hardly blame him; a considerable portion of that filing cabinet was choked with records of the Marauders’ colourful career. He had only let me in to check most reluctantly, and he eyed the twitching case as if it were a ticking bomb. When I thanked him he gave me a sneer in return that would have made Snape proud. 

Rather than getting angry, I made a neat little bow, took the trunk and exited, ignoring Mrs Norris, who followed me closely until I reached my chambers and shut the door in her face.

*****************************************************

Harry’s face was a study in composure as he eyed the case containing the Boggart. Most people would have been fooled, but I had seen James in the lead-up to his OWLs, and then his NEWTs two years later. I suspected inside he was just as nervous as I was.

I pulled out my wand. “So… the spell I am going to try and teach you is highly advanced magic, Harry - well beyond Ordinary Wizarding Level. It is called the Patronus Charm.”

Harry’s voice trembled a little as he spoke. It could have been the usual quavering of adolescence, but I didn’t think so. “How does it work?”

“Well, when it works, it conjures up a Patronus, which is a kind of Anti-Dementor - a guardian which acts as a shield between you and the Dementor.”

Harry drank in my further explanations like a sponge. 

His proud excitement just a few minutes later when he produced a wisp of silver smoke reminded me jarringly of how young he really was. “Did you see that? Something happened!”

“Very good! Right then – ready to try it on a Dementor?”

When the Boggart Dementor rose from the trunk, Harry swayed on his feet. I felt more than a little sick myself, but he had turned a ghostly white in the flickering lamplight.

“ _Expecto patronum! Expecto patronum!_ ” Harry’s lids began to close, almost lazily. “Expecto…” he mumbled once more, before collapsing bonelessly to the floor.

“Riddikulus!” I shouted. The Dementor cracked, and the light of the Full Moon filled the room with a soft white glow as I wrestled the Boggart back into the box. I quickly crouched down at the fallen boy’s side. “Harry?” I repeated myself a little louder. “Harry!” 

Harry awoke with a jolt, murmuring apologies.

“Are you all right?”

Though Harry said he was, he used a nearby desk to get himself back on his feet and propped himself against it. I pressed a Chocolate Frog on him and urged him to eat it. “I didn’t expect you to do it the first time,” I reassured him. “In fact, I would have been astounded if you had.”

Rather distractedly, more to himself than to me, he muttered, “It’s getting worse. I could hear her louder that time – and him – Voldemort –”

I suddenly decided this whole exercise was a very bad idea. “Harry, if you don’t want to continue, I will more than understand –”

“I do! I’ve got to! ” Harry’s reply was forceful, and he ate the last of the chocolate so fast I thought he might choke. Again, Lily glared at me from behind his eyes. “What if the Dementors turn up in out match against Ravenclaw? I can’t afford to fall off again. If we lose this game we’ve lost the Quidditch Cup!”

I bit back a comment just in time about there being more important things than Quidditch. This was James’s son, after all. “All right then…” I agreed reluctantly. “You might want to select another memory, a happy memory, I mean, to concentrate on ... that one doesn’t seem to have been strong enough … ”

The next attempt was worse. Though Harry managed to stay conscious a little longer, it took considerably longer to revive him. In the end, I resorted to Hermione’s method, although without her level of enthusiasm.

“I heard my dad. That’s the first time I’ve ever heard him,” Harry mumbled blearily as he stirred. “He tried to take on Voldemort himself, to give my mum time to run for it …”

I felt hideously ill and guilty beyond measure. I was effectively torturing an already traumatised boy, urging him to perform a charm well above his capabilities. And I didn’t know if I could stand to hear what he was remembering if it did go on. From a distance, I heard my own voice asking hollowly, “You heard James?”

“Yeah… Why – you didn’t know my dad, did you?” Harry looked up at me curiously, his eyes still bright with tears.

My voice was faint, and full of pain. “I – I did, as a matter of fact. We were friends at Hogwarts.” I swallowed hard. I wanted out of this, _now_. “Listen, Harry – perhaps we should leave it here for tonight. This charm is ridiculously advanced … I shouldn’t have suggested putting you through this …”

“No!” Harry cut me off, on his feet again. “I’ll have one more go! I’m not thinking of happy enough things, that’s what it is … hang on …” His face contorted in a grimace of concentration, and it stabbed me like a knife. _A powerful enough happy memory? With his past?_

Harry’s jaw was set as he faced the trunk again. I tried to not think about the hopes that would come crashing down when he failed, about James’s death from twelve years past replaying in his mind, about the overwhelming sense of shame I felt at not putting a stop to this at once. Instead, I was giving in and opening the case one last time.

“EXPECTO PATRONUM! EXPECTO PATRONUM! EXPECTO PATRONUM!”

An indistinct silver shape blossomed from the tip of Harry’s wand to stand before him, filling the room with light. Knowing he was already exhausted, I allowed him to hold it for no more than ten seconds before repelling the Boggart with a crack and forcing it back into the box. 

I was jubilant and giddy. I had somehow forgotten the fact that this was _Lily’s_ son. Lily, the exceptional Muggleborn witch to whom Charms were as easy and natural as drawing breath. “Excellent! Excellent, Harry!” I chortled. “That was definitely a start.”

Harry immediately badgered me for “just one more go”, but I stood my ground. Despite his elation, Harry was clearly very weak. “Not now. You’ve had enough for one night.” 

I pulled out a bar of Honeydukes’, pushing it into his hand. “Here – eat the lot, or Madam Pomfrey will be after my blood,” I said, only half-joking. “Same time next week?” Harry agreed.

In the middle of dousing the lamps the question came from out of the blue, extinguishing my good mood as effectively as a bucket of iced water. “Professor Lupin? If you knew my dad, you must’ve known Sirius Black as well.”

I whirled to face him, instantly bristling. _What had Severus said to the boy?_ “What gives you that idea?”

My tone must have been more hostile than I meant it to be, because Harry flinched a little, and hastened to explain. “Nothing – I mean, I just knew they were friends at Hogwarts, too …”

I let out a slow breath. Harry was innocent in this. He wasn’t Severus, or Filch, or any of those others who had whispered behind my back since Hallowe’en. He was just a child trying to understand his tangled past, as Dumbledore had said. “Yes,” I said tightly. “I knew him. Or I thought I did. You’d better get off, Harry, it’s getting late.”

He left me to my confused thoughts and tumult of emotions.


	10. Chapter Nine: The Seductiveness of Echoes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Remus dreams of the past.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, basically this chapter was an excuse to write all these little Maraudery moments that I had in my head and bunch them together. So basically, NOTHING plotty happens in this chapter.
> 
> Readers of my Teapot 'verse may recognise the original, patented Awkward Conversation. This was the scene that inspired my lovely Ron and Harry discussion in the chapter Reaction.

I suspected Severus had been tinkering with the formula again when I started on my next course of Wolfsbane. I was able to go about my day to day duties as always, but when I was tired I would be overtaken by memories so vivid as to be almost hallucinations. This was fine after hours, but occasionally I’d drift away in the middle of a class, staring vacantly, caught up in my reflections.

As annoying as this could be, it was also somewhat addictive. Because of the setting, the memories I was reliving were mainly from my youth. A strong enough trigger was all that was needed to send me into a daydream, and this castle that had for seven years been my home was cluttered with associations. 

I developed a preoccupied air that week, losing myself in the phantoms of that long ago time, turning them over in my head like pages in a book.

**********************************************

The dormitory was dark and it was well after curfew, but my three room mates were crowded on my bed. All of them looked excited; Sirius was positively bouncing. After a year and a half of friendship, I recognised the signs well. A plan of monumental proportions was afoot.

I was still recovering from my latest Change, and not precisely in the best state to be a reliable accessory to whatever mayhem they had cooked up, but the mood was contagious. “What have you thought up now?” I asked. “Some way to hex Malfoy without losing Gryffindor a million points?”

Malfoy was a Slytherin, a Sixth Year and a Prefect. I knew that Sirius in particular had been itching to take him down a peg or two. “Got caught,” Sirius admitted shamelessly. “I’ve got detention for a week. It was worth it to see him trying to look intimidating and impressive with pink hair though.”

“Anyway,” James broke in, “we’ve got something better. Loads better than hexing any Slytherin. Even Snape.” The fact that James could say this earnestly convinced me that this was indeed an incredible plan. I began to feel a little jittery inside.

“What have you done?” I asked warily. _And am I going to get in trouble for it?_

Sirius waved a careless hand, “Oh, nothing yet. Well, almost nothing. Nothing they could expel us for.”

My brows raised, and I looked at James, hoping for some sort of explanation. Taking my expression as an invitation, James went on.

“Well, Remus, we’ve been thinking. Quite a bit. And we had a big talk, and we’ve decided. We want to Change, like you do.”

“No!” I shouted. “I won’t do it! I won’t bite y-”

Sirius clamped a hand over my mouth. “Shut up, you prat!” he hissed into my ear. “Do you want to wake up the whole Tower? No one’s asking you to bite anyone. Stop being an idiot, and let him finish.”

I pushed Sirius off me, glaring at him resentfully. I didn’t think I was being a prat _or_ an idiot, and took umbrage at being called both in the space of half a minute. My hands curled into fists, and Sirius’s eyes flashed warningly.

“Cut it out, you two,” James ordered curtly. I subsided. Despite being strong enough to whip any of them in a fight, the Wolf in me had long ago acknowledged James as Alpha of our little Pack, and I rarely challenged him when he was serious. “Sirius is right. We don’t want to be werewolves. This is something else. Hold on.”

He slipped from the bed to rummage in his trunk, returning and dropping a heavy book into my lap. It had a title across the leather cover in flaking gilt, which I translated eventually in the poor light; _Human Metamorphosis_. 

“There’s something called the Animagus Transformation,” James continued. “McGonagall can do it; I heard a Fifth Year talking about it in the Common Room during our First Year, before we figured out what was up with you. I got to thinking about it recently, so I went looking for information.”

I had lit my wand and begun flicking through the book as he spoke. It had details on all sorts of transformational spells and conditions, from hereditary talents like the Metamorphmagus gift to a chapter on transmitted involuntary transformation, featuring Werewolves. There were a multitude of Charms for disguise and concealment; from major incantations to obscure your presence from enemies down to minor ones to hide wrinkles. 

“Where did you get this from?” I asked suspiciously. Most of the magics described didn’t look like the sort to be found on the general curriculum, and all were at an Advanced level.

“Nicked it, of course,” Sirius drawled. Peter giggled. “Snuck down under the Cloak the other night while you were Changed. Peter watched out for Filch while we raided the Restricted Section.”

I must have looked slightly horrified at this, because James took over again. “We looked in the regular bit of the library first, but we didn’t find anything. I figured from the beginning that it’d be in the Restricted Section anyway, because it’s dangerous magic, and if it was in the regular library kids’d be trying it out for fun and getting sent to St Mungo’s in a bucket.”

If that statement wasn’t alarming enough, I finally reached the section on Transfiguration. The chapter on the Animagus Transformation was formidable. 

“You can’t do this!” I exclaimed. 

“Yes, we can,” James said, quietly but confidently. “I’ve looked it over, and I think if we all help each other, we can. It’ll take a long time, but when we do, we can stay with you when you Change. We won’t be human, so you can’t infect us. Then you won’t be alone.”

I stared blankly from face to face, and all three of them were determined. “You’d do this… for me?” Even Peter nodded firmly, though the tip of his pink tongue flashed out to moisten his lips nervously. “But… but why?”

“You really are a prat, Moony,” Sirius said, playfully cuffing me. I warred between indignation at yet again being called a prat and affection at his newly coined nickname. “Because we _like_ you, of course. And because we need you to translate _this_ ,” he pointed at the book, “into actual English, so we can understand how the hell to do it.”

The book _was_ in English, but I knew what he meant. It was scientific language; very dry and dull, however informative.

“All right, then. I’ll try. But-”

My attempt at a cautionary lecture was cut off in a squeak as I was pounced on by all three of my best friends in the world for a group hug.

*************************************************

_“SHE SAID YES!!”_

James burst into the dormitory, his eyes wild and wide, his hair mussed. 

“She said yes! Did you hear? I asked her and she said yes!!”

“Did you hear something, Moony?” Sirius murmured, not even looking up from his copy of _Which Broomstick?_

“I think I did, Padfoot,” I sighed, turning another page of my Ancient Runes textbook, looking for the correct symbols for the word _augury_.

“It sounded a _bit_ like that person who’s been mooching around this place lately, looking as cheerful as a Kneazle in a rainstorm… what’s his name?” 

I shrugged, affecting a completely disinterested air. 

Sirius stared into the middle distance, as if struggling to fix a name to a face. “George? Something like that. The skinny git with the glasses that’s been sighing a lot and writing bloody awful poetry during Charms.”

Meanwhile, James had _skipped_ across the dormitory. He hauled Sirius off the bed and was attempting to waltz around the room with him. “I asked Lily Evans out!” he enthused.

Sirius was struggling valiantly to extricate himself. “So? You’ve been asking Lily Evans out since First Year. That’s how you got that lovely set of scars across your-”

“SHE SAID YES!!” James shouted again, his face radiant.

“ _Oh_ …She said _yes_ ,” Sirius said slowly. “Well, why didn’t you just say so? Really mate, you need to speak up and be clear about these things. It’s all part of a friendship you know. When something imp-” 

James grabbed Sirius’s face with both hands, kissed him full on the mouth firmly, and departed in a blur of motion. 

Left in the wake of the whirlwind that had been his best friend, Sirius blinked a few times, swallowed heavily, then resumed his position on the bed beside me, if a little more stiffly than before. He ignored my knowing smirk and retrieved his magazine, clearing his throat. “So… what about those Cannons, eh? Bloody disgrace.”

************************************************

“I want to…with you.” 

The words were hesitant, with none of his usual arrogance. My breath caught in my throat at the sincerity in those words, in his eyes. I was mesmerised by them for a moment before what he’d so tentatively admitted…asked?…sank in. 

Oh. _Oh_. 

I immediately flushed a deep crimson to match his, and looked quickly away. Any feelings of lust were warring with a sudden panicky urge to run.

It wasn’t that I didn’t want to…I mean, I’d thought about it. A lot. Especially lately, now that we were both getting a bit more adventurous and lasting longer than a couple of minutes. In a haze of sweat and hormones, both a bit giddy, Sirius’s wandering fingers had discovered my prostate a couple of months ago. Ever since then we’d both become a lot more interested in this area of each other, but neither of us had actually voiced aloud what this exploration was leading up to. Until now.

I didn’t realise that I’d been sitting there, gaping, for a long time until he mumbled a hasty apology and all but ran from the library. Ignoring my books and reams of NEWT study notes spread across the tabletop like snowdrifts I dashed after him, hardly hearing the librarian’s angry squawk.

I caught up with him halfway back to the Common Room. It was only my superior strength that allowed me to grab his arm and drag him into a vacant classroom. He was breathing hard from his mad flight and fighting against me. His twisted features and aggressive stance would have frightened anyone who didn’t have an unfair advantage like I did.

“Look, I’m sorry,” he snarled angrily. “Obviously I -”

I stopped his mouth with a deep kiss. His gesticulating arms stilled and wrapped around me tightly and his rigid body melted against mine. There was a hitch in his breath and a slight dampness on his face as we clung to each other, but then, there was in mine too.

“I do too…” 

I had broken from the kiss and was standing, panting, with my forehead pressed to his. He straightened and looked me in the eye, as if searching for deception or a joking glint in their depths.

Not finding anything untoward, he asked, “You’re serious? You’d really? With me?”

“Yes,” I babbled. “I mean, I’d like to. That is, if you want to…”

This time it was him stopping me from talking. His kiss was passionate, deep, and quickly becoming very heated, his hands moving over my body urgently. The panic began to rise in me again, and I pushed him away gently. He looked a little hurt.

“We shouldn’t, not yet…” My eyes wandered wildly around the classroom. My brain seemed to have gone on holiday, leaving me stranded. 

Luckily, Sirius latched on to part of the problem rather than getting angry. “Oh…no…I wasn’t trying to…not here…” he stammered. “Later…when you’re ready.”

My head was still whirling, and my traitorous mouth opened again and began to ramble. “I need to go to the library first. There are charms…I mean, I know I can’t get pregnant, but still, we should…” Sirius looked lost. I blushed for what felt like the hundredth time since this incredibly intense topic was raised, and winced. “I haven’t…I mean…you’ve…and I’m still…” I petered off awkwardly and wished I could die. 

All that I could think of was what he would think of me, how much I’d bollixed up this whole conversation, and the Sex Education lecture by Madam Pomfrey and the Mediwizard from St Mungo’s we’d all giggled through years ago. _Having multiple partners increases the risk of transmission of…certain acts also heighten the risk, especially if precautions are not taken to…_

“I haven’t.” 

His words were so quiet I hardly heard them over the torrent of anguish in my head. I blinked.

“But…you’re always…I mean, how could you not have…”

He shrugged, and the shadow of a sheepish grin crept across his face.

Sirius had always bragged incessantly abut his conquests, but it suddenly occurred to me that he’d never actually talked about going “all the way”. Fooling around he’d done aplenty, shamelessly. His gentle hints and guidance when I first went down on him showed clearly that he knew what he liked and how he liked it. But whenever we’d asked about sex after lights out in the dormitory, he’d demurred, laughed, joked or changed the topic, and got pounded with pillows for his evasiveness. He’d not lied about it; we’d all just assumed that he _had_.

“Oh,” I said, into the gaping silence. “Okay…well, we probably should…you know…anyway…”

“Yeah…”

Mortified beyond belief, my heart pounding, we made our excuses to each other and went our separate ways. 

The next morning, he sat next to me in the Great Hall and held my hand under the table, where no one else could see. I very valiantly resisted the urge to giggle coyly, and stuffed a slice of toast into my mouth, just in case.

*********************************************

When the Change was over and the world resumed its focus, I felt the loss of these daytime visions keenly. Seeing again how it used to be, the present day reality was a lot harder to swallow. 


	11. Chapter Ten: Smoke and Mirrors

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Remus' lessons with Harry continue.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter contains dialogue and situations originally created by and belonging by copyright to JK Rowling. Some lines of dialogue are taken and used verbatim from Chapter Twelve (The Patronus) of Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban (p. 266-269 of the Bloomsbury adult cover pbk edition). However, the arrangement and descriptive passages surrounding any copyrighted dialogue, and any additional dialogue not contained in JK Rowling's work, is my own.

The day started like many others. I hadn’t slept well, and I was inclined to be irritable when this was the case. The mirror’s snide remarks were also something I could have done without, but a man had to shave. A man with my unique metabolism had to shave a bit more regularly than most; twice a day at certain times of the month.

That morning, my poor sleep was evident. My eyes were pouchy and hooded, my colour pale and my expression grumpy. My hair, though limp, thin and greying at the best of times, was doing its best impression of a bird’s nest.

“You look like shit,” was the mirror’s blunt assessment. I ignored it.

The mirror hadn’t yet forgiven me for not being my predecessor. Gilderoy had apparently spent a great deal of time in front of it, primping and preening, playing with his hair and various changes of couture. A scruffy, down-at-the-heels, facially disfigured werewolf who only looked in the mirror out of bare necessity was a bit of a let down after all that attention. I even covered the mirror to bathe; something I assumed last year’s DADA teacher had not done.

At better moments, on better mornings, I used an old fashioned straight razor with a Stay-Sharp charmed blade. This was not one of those mornings. I pulled out my Shave-Eze Safety Razor with a sigh, ignoring the audible snigger from the wall. My stubble would be evident by noon, but I didn’t trust the steadiness of my hands yet. 

I dragged a wet comb through my messy hair, trying to slick it into some semblance of neatness.

“Don’t even know why you bother,” came the lazy, smug drawl. It was like sharing my daily toilet with Severus.

I debated for a long moment testing whether breaking a mirror really did cause seven years bad luck, before deciding eventually I shouldn’t risk it. After all, Magical Theorists had proven Murphy’s Law centuries ago. Taunting the Fates in such a blatant way would be just asking for trouble.

When spitting out my toothpaste a few minutes later provoked a titter and the remark, “ _So_ attractive,” I decided to go into the market for a new mirror. There had to be somewhere in Hogsmeade that sold them.

“Oh, yes, indeed,” Filius said cheerfully, while buttering a crumpet. “You want Rowle and Toke’s. It’s just off the Main Street. They’re mainly a tobacconist, of course, but they do stock a range of shaving and toilet supplies. They sharpen razors too, should you ever need it.”

I sipped absently at my tea and thanked him warmly. My appetite was poor, but I nibbled the corner of a slice of toast disinterestedly, hoping that would be enough to fool Poppy if she glanced down the table. I doubted it. She was as sharp as Dumbledore, in her own way. My mediocre attempt to make myself look refreshed might fool some, but it wouldn’t stand up under her clinical scrutiny.

I didn’t have a morning class so I strolled to Hogsmeade. Though there was a clear, blue sky, the weather was bitingly cold and the wind was bitter. Even wrapped up tightly in my warmest robes and cloak, with a minor Heating Charm cast on the wool, I was frozen by the time I reached the village.

Rowle and Toke’s was warm to the point of stuffiness and filled with a fug of aromas. Its shelves and cabinets were crammed with a whole spectrum of smoking equipment; from tiny pipes the size of my index finger to hookahs two feet tall standing in a neat row along the wall. Canisters rather like large tea caddies filled the shelves from floor to ceiling in orderly rows behind the sales counter, all carefully labelled as to the blend or leaf inside. I wandered back to a far corner and began perusing their shaving supplies.

The sales clerk was jovial and laid back and after I took a few moments to unravel and identify the myriad scents in the air I understood why. A smile tickled my lips and I had a sudden flashback to a rather interesting night in the Shrieking Shack (not a full moon) when Sirius shared his stash with the rest of us for the first time. 

Of course, it hadn’t affected me much, but I got a nice buzz for a few minutes and then was able to watch soberly as my closest and dearest friends behaved in a very silly manner. Everyone giggled a lot. Sirius and James engaged in a very juvenile insult sparring match, which descended into a wrestling match, which evolved into a clumsy groping session. (Both were very embarrassed at the latter and denied it vehemently the next morning.) Peter progressed from giggling to fidgeting constantly, jumping at small noises and flinching whenever anyone looked in his direction. I sat back, warring between wishing I’d brought a camera and wondering why watching James and Sirius pawing each other was arousing me.

Finally, Sirius had announced that he could have eaten a whole dragon (if he could be bothered to catch one) and proposed a visit to the kitchens. There was a lot of shushing and still more giggling under James’s Cloak on the way back to the dormitory. Only by sheer luck had we avoided capture.

Though Peter admitted frankly that he hadn’t liked it and James and Sirius were clearly mortified by their behaviour, smoking together was something we did on and off throughout our school years. Even Lily joined us once or twice, after she started dating James and had loosened up a bit. It was the seventies and it was something fairly normal for the times. In fact it was probably worse for Muggles; wizard culture didn’t have any problem with casual cannabis smoking. Muggles seemed to go a bit mad with it for a while because of their laws. 

By comparison to a lot of other kids our age, what we got up to was very tame. For me, it was more of a social thing, as I didn’t get high like the others did, which was probably just as well given how they seemed to drift through classes the day after. 

We all stopped once we left school and joined the Order (reflexes and senses needed to be sharp when fighting Death Eaters) and I never took it up again. There was no point; there was no one to be social with. No James, declaiming poetry theatrically and mangling it appallingly. No Peter, starting comically at shadows. No slightly blurry Sirius, fumbling to unbutton my shirt…

“That one,” I said, pointing to a medium-sized mirror with a plain wooden frame that could be hung on a wall or stood independently on a little bracket.

“Excellent!” exclaimed the salesman.

I exited Rowle and Toke’s, slightly fragrant, with my parcel. The wind hit me with icy knives the moment I stepped outside. I shivered and drew my cloak tighter, before setting off with a confident step to the Three Broomsticks.

A warm tankard of Butterbeer later and I was feeling much more like myself and less like a werewolf flavoured ice lolly. The Broomsticks was quiet, as it was the middle of the day and not an excursion weekend for the students, but there were a decent number of other shoppers huddled inside, defrosting in front of the roaring fire with various beverages. I would have liked to have lingered, but I had to be getting back for my afternoon classes.

“Another, Remus?” Rosmerta asked, when she saw my empty glass.

“No, thankyou,” A sudden thought occurred to me. “Would I be able to buy a couple of bottles though? Take-aways?”

Rosmerta frowned a little and gestured with her dishcloth to the room in general. “Company not to your liking?”

“Oh, no, no, nothing like that,” I said, giving her a quick, reassuring smile. “I have to teach in an hour. The Butterbeer’s for…a student I’m…mentoring. He hasn’t been able to come to Hogsmeade this year, and I’m afraid he’s feeling a bit left out.”

Rosmerta snorted a little. “A troublemaker, is he? Kept back at the school when the others come here?”

“You could say trouble finds him.”

Rosmerta laughed aloud and looked at me knowingly. “Ah, you would saddle yourself with a delinquent. It takes one to know one, after all.”

I opened my mouth to protest my innocence, but she had set the bottles on the bar and was wagging a finger at me with a twinkle in her eye. “Those bottles of Firewhiskey didn’t just Apparate out of my cellar all those years ago. And your friend James tipped me enough for a case of the stuff, the following school weekend. Felt guilty, did he?” 

I grinned mischievously as I handed over the coins. “Keep the change.”

***

The case slammed shut again, and Harry’s feeble Patronus winked out.

“You’re expecting too much of yourself,” I said. Harry’s lip curled and he looked for a moment as though he might growl, as Sirius sometimes had done when frustrated and angry.

If I had to describe Harry to anyone, the first word out of my mouth would be _intense_. He had a stubborn, pig-headed determination, but at the same time was insecure and had very high – too high – expectations of himself. He took every perceived failure to heart and was becoming more and more discouraged with every lesson. When the self-loathing kicked in, his focus and control would become sketchy and the Charm less effective, which made him angry. It was a perpetual cycle.

“For a thirteen-year-old wizard, even an indistinct Patronus is a huge achievement.” I was being honest. Harry’s expression suggested that he thought I was being a bit patronising. “You aren’t passing out any more, are you?” I ventured, trying to draw his attention back to the progress that had been made.

Harry’s voice was hollow. “I thought a Patronus would – charge the Dementors down or something. Make them disappear –”

“The true Patronus does do that,” I agreed. Harry was obviously still wallowing. “But you’ve achieved a great deal in a very short space of time. If the Dementors put in an appearance at your next Quidditch match, you will be able to keep them at bay long enough to get back to the ground.”

Harry looked unconvinced and miserable. “You said it’s harder if there are loads of them.”

I resisted a sudden urge to shake him. It wasn’t his fault he felt so deeply. I should have anticipated it really; he came from passionate stock. 

James adored Lily (and Harry, when he was born), his friends and Quidditch, in roughly that order of dedication, depending on whether the World Cup was on the WWN. Lily was possessed of a fierce intellect, a strong will and a determination to do the right thing. She was also as formidable as a lioness defending her cubs when it came to protecting those she loved. 

Both were breath-takingly beautiful in their passion. So was Harry, but his was a heartbreaking thing to see; a soul-destroying sort of fire that licked at the child in him, turning the last vestiges of innocence to bitter ash.

I turned a bright smile on him. “I have complete confidence in you. Here – you’ve earned a drink. Something from the Three Broomsticks, you won’t have tried it before–” 

“Butterbeer! Yeah, I like that stuff!” There was a pause, and then Harry’s face fell comically into guilty shock. I didn’t say anything, just looked at him pointedly. He squirmed. “Oh – Ron and Hermione brought me back some from Hogsmeade.”

He was a rotten liar. I wondered idly whatever had happened to James’s old Cloak. I’d always assumed that it’d been destroyed when the house was. Now I wasn’t so sure. 

“I see. Well – let’s drink to a Gryffindor victory against Ravenclaw! Not that I’m supposed to take sides, as a teacher…”

My change of subject seemed to relax him a little, as did my accidental outburst of Gryffindor pride. There were a few quiet, companionable moments, where we sipped our bottles and said nothing.

“What’s under a Dementor’s hood?” Harry asked at last.

“Hmmm … well.” I knew my answer, that no one knew, would be unsatisfying to the insatiable curiosity of a teenager. “The only people who really know are in no position to tell us. You see, the Dementor only lowers its hood to use its last and worst weapon.”

“What’s that?”

“They call it the Dementor’s Kiss. It’s what the Dementors do to those they wish to destroy utterly.” My tone was as matter-of-fact as I could make it. “I suppose there must be some kind of mouth under there, because they clamp their jaws upon the mouth of victim and – and suck out his soul.” I could feel a tremble in my hands and hated myself for it. Harry was too busy gagging on his Butterbeer to notice.

“What – they kill –?” Harry was agog, his eyes large in his face.

I toyed with the neck of the bottle in my hands. My voice was still level. “Oh, no. Much worse than that. You can exist without your soul, you know, as long as your brain and heart are still working. But you’ll have no sense of self any more, no memory, no … anything. You’ll just – exist. As an empty shell. And your soul is gone forever … lost.”

I took a grim mouthful, before continuing. “It’s the fate that awaits Sirius Black. It was in the _Daily Prophet_ this morning. The Ministry have given the Dementors permission to perform it if they find him.”

“He deserves it.” 

The venom in Harry’s reply startled me, despite knowing his history. Harry hadn’t asked about my friendship with his father or Sirius since our first Patronus lesson. Perhaps my overreaction to Sirius’s name had frightened him a little. The tone of our friendship (if it could be called a friendship) remained cordial, although we seemed to be building a wall rather than breaking them down. 

Whatever the reason, he hadn’t asked, and I hadn’t volunteered anything. I had chosen the cautious and less painful route and said nothing. Even my Hogwarts memories of James and Lily, though largely pleasant, might be received badly if offered at the wrong time or in the wrong way. I didn’t want to push things on him he wasn’t ready to hear.

But this, this was different. 

I deliberately kept as much emotion from my reply as I could. I was prepared this time. After all, I had raised the subject of Sirius in the first place. “You think so? Do you really think anyone deserves that?”

“Yes.” Harry’s reply was firm and unhesitating. “For … for some things …”

_For James and Lily…_

Harry’s mouth was set in a hard line, his eyes distant. I didn’t trouble him for any more answers and I couldn’t blame him for his sentiments. Perhaps his clear, unadulterated view of the matter was the sensible one. Ironically, his black-and-white view of a complex situation was more like his godfather’s mindset than he would ever know. Sirius was ever a victim of his own polarised attitude to things. 

Harry finished his Butterbeer and left me to my thoughts.


	12. Chapter Eleven: Could You Believe Your Eyes?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A Firebolt, a Quidditch match, and frights of several descriptions.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter contains dialogue and situations originally created by and belonging by copyright to JK Rowling. Some lines of dialogue are taken and used verbatim from Chapter Thirteen (Gryffindor vs Ravenclaw) of Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban (p. 285-286 of the Bloomsbury adult cover pbk edition). However, the arrangement and descriptive passages surrounding any copyrighted dialogue, and any additional dialogue not contained in JK Rowling's work, is my own.

There was quite a crowd around the Gryffindor table the morning of the Quidditch match, mainly consisting of people who had gathered to ogle Harry’s new Firebolt. 

It was a mystery, that broomstick. Dumbledore had called me to his office when it had first arrived. He never thought that I’d sent it – I, who lived on tea and biscuits and Honeyduke’s in order to have enough money to buy quills, parchment and ink. He and McGonagall wanted to know what motivations _Sirius_ might have had for sending it. 

If the question hadn’t been asked most gravely by Dumbledore himself, I might have laughed aloud in his face. Sirius was the most wanted man in the wizarding world besides Voldemort himself. The idea of him sending a child a broomstick - a _jinxed_ broomstick - as some form of remote assassination? It was absurd. 

It was so _obvious_ , to begin with. To anonymously send a broomstick that would certainly be investigated closely? It was the plan of an amateur, and Sirius was never so unimaginative in his pranks. And how would he know about Harry’s Nimbus being broken in the first place?

“The suggestion has been made that he may have gleaned that detail from someone within the school itself,” Dumbledore said quietly.

I stood quickly, my back straight, and my voice when I spoke was uncharacteristically heated and resentful. It had been barely a day since my last transformation and I wanted more than anything to be recuperating alone in front of my fire with a cup of tea, rather than being grilled by the administration. “If Severus wants to accuse me of anything, tell him to come and say it to my face.”

“Sit, please, Remus.” Dumbledore said mildly, as if I hadn’t just had a rude and unprofessional outburst about a fellow teacher. “We thought it a more likely scenario that Black had somehow intercepted an owl, perhaps more than one, in search of information. The events at the match would have been more than exciting enough for many students, and indeed staff, to relate to their families and friends. No doubt the tale of the destruction of Harry’s broomstick was spread far and wide.”

I relaxed marginally and the rest of the questioning went smoothly, if fruitlessly. To my mind, an anonymous Quidditch-loving benefactor was much more likely. Harry was The Boy Who Lived, after all. For a lot of people, that would be reason enough to give him an expensive gift for Christmas.

I knew that since that meeting, Professor McGonagall and Filius had been over every inch of the Firebolt. They’d even called me in to look it over just a few days ago, just on the off chance I found something they’d missed or hadn’t thought of. I didn’t. It was absolutely perfect, in every way.

Harry seemed rather pleased with the attention, if a little distracted. He picked at his breakfast; staring into space and answering questions from enthusiastic admirers more than actually eating. I was strongly reminded again of his father’s pre-match jitters. Though Harry looked calm enough, I could see all the tell-tale signs of nerves I’d learned to recognise years past in James before his big games. I wondered if Harry’s foot was tapping under the table, where none of the others could see.

I had thought to get some marking done before the match but instead found myself walking down to the pitch and taking my old seat in the Gryffindor stand.

I’d never been that interested in Quidditch. My condition had meant that most of my childhood was solitary or spent in the company of adults, so team sports and activities were something of a mystery to me. I preferred books, music and passive indoor games like chess and cards. But James and Sirius were Quidditch mad. 

They had dragged me bodily to games in my First Year to sit in the crowd amongst the ruckus and roar, forcibly removing any books I had managed to conceal about my person. Both gave up eventually on teaching me the intricacies of the legion of recognised fouls, but I got a passable grasp of the play. Quidditch had become a part of my life, whether I liked it or not.

When they were both chosen for the House team, I discovered to my own surprise that I was still in the stands with Peter, cheering on my best friends, singing chants full of words generally not a part of my vocabulary. I was there in all weathers; only a Change would keep me from it. I began to wonder at my tastes, as most Quidditch players could be summed up as big, toned and monosyllabic.

If the sight of me surprised or alarmed the students gradually trickling into the stand, my status as a teacher spared me confrontation and I was only subjected to some rather odd stares and loud whispers from the nearby rows. Even wearing a rather antiquated Gryffindor scarf, I didn’t exactly blend in. 

Hagrid gave me a cheery nod as he squeezed his way to the back row. Though, like myself, he could have sat with the teachers, I supposed he had his reasons for sitting where he did. I knew he’d never finished his education and I suspected that he still, despite his new teacher status, felt he had more in common with the students than the staff.

My motivations to sit where I did were disturbingly obvious, to myself at least. Part nostalgia, part masochism. Like so many other aspects of life at Hogwarts, Quidditch was saturated with memories, fragile and painful, scattered everywhere like shards of brightly coloured glass. Every moment a new sharp edge would cut me, wound me, draw blood that none but I could see.

There, at the foot of the Hufflepuff stand was where Lily’s behaviour first contradicted the sentiment of every acid remark she’d ever made about James. He’d been knocked from his broom by a bludger during a particularly vicious game against Ravenclaw. She’d run down half a dozen flights of stairs to stand shaking at his side while they revived him, her green eyes huge and threatening to fill with tears. The bright hair framing her pale, frightened face had made her look somehow ghostly and transparent. 

Peter had tumbled headfirst from this very row to land on his backside on the grass below in our Sixth Year. He had leaned out too far in over enthusiasm when James scored a particularly neat goal to put Gryffindor ahead in the final against Hufflepuff. Even after Madame Pomfrey’s care, he had walked stiffly for days. James and Sirius had been in heaven. Every alternate theory for Peter’s discomfort, from constipation to a vigorous lover, was discussed loudly at inappropriate times, much to Peter’s mortification. Months later, the mere mention of it would bring a dreamy smile to both their faces. 

And over by the changing rooms, under a staircase, was where I had dragged Sirius out of sight one memorable day. He had just finished practice and was still wearing his Quidditch kit, his hair hanging in sweat-damp tendrils around his face, his robes clinging. Sirius barely had time to drop his broom and brace himself against a post before I was on my knees in front of him, and he was biting his own hand to stifle a groan. His other hand was forceful on the back of my head, pressing me to swallow him deeper, and his hips were giving futile little thrusts against the firm grip of my hands, pinning him immobile. 

I’d just wrung the last gasp from him, and was about to rise to my feet when a strangled, rather high pitched voice said from behind me, “Well…that…er…explains a lot.”

That was the day James found out. I don’t think he ever forgave us. He claimed irreparable mental trauma from having the misfortune to stumble upon one friend giving the other a blow job.

“You’re just jealous,” Sirius had sniggered, in the dorm room later that evening. “He’s _incredible_. Does things with his tongue that you wouldn’t _believe_ …”

At this point, both James and I meted out physical violence on an unrepentant Sirius, who continued praising my technique, in a somewhat muffled voice, from beneath our combined weight. He only relented when I reminded him I could withdraw the privilege of said skills at any time.

The team captains shook hands, and at the whistle the fourteen players kicked off hard from the turf and into the air. I hadn’t been watching for more than a few minutes before I knew that I was witnessing something special.

James had been good on a broom. He could easily impress those around him with trick flying and clever manoeuvres. It made him an excellent Quidditch player, the envy of many of the boys and the heartthrob of a large percentage of the girls, and vice versa. Harry wasn’t like that at all. He was something entirely different. 

Harry flew a broom as if every movement was instinctive, as if flying for him was as effortless as breathing. He looked comfortable, confident and at home in the air as he never did on the ground. I felt as if I was seeing him clearly for the first time, even though he was so far above me.

The game was fast paced, close and exciting, and I was completely absorbed. Then, just as Harry made a third bid for the Snitch, scattered shouts and cries of alarm broke out around me. Before I had time to discover the source, I saw Harry reach inside his robes, hold out his wand and shout clearly, “ _Expecto patronum!_ ”

My heart skipped a beat, and I heard myself make a terrible sound, like wounded animal. It was lost in the collective gasp of shock from the crowd. The giant silver stag charged down the cloaked figures, knocking them to the ground before dispersing into mist.

_The stag…_

With all my knowledge, all my learning, I had never prepared myself for the form that Harry’s Patronus would take, should he ever produce a corporeal one. 

Harry had never seen or known about his father’s Animagus form, or the shape James’ Patronus took. His life had been a far different one; much harsher than James’ ever had been. The fact that his Patronus was still a stag, the same as his father’s, despite everything, amazed me. That essence, that core, the heart that beat within him, was still that of a Potter.

I pushed my way out and down the stairs. A great roar told me that the Snitch had been caught and the game was at an end, but the game was no longer my concern. A threat to Harry was. 

What I found stunned on the grass was hardly threatening. I allowed myself a quiet, mocking laugh and walked away to find Harry. He was surrounded on all sides by ecstatic Gryffindors, but with a little effort, I managed to get close enough to lean down and murmur in his ear, “That was quite some Patronus.”

He turned to face me; beaming, transcendent. “The Dementors didn’t affect me at all! I didn’t feel a thing!”

I hated to deflate his confidence even a little, in the wake of what was an incredible achievement. “That would be because they – er – weren’t Dementors. Come and see –”

Harry looked very puzzled, and slightly irritated, until he saw the figures that were now attempting to free themselves from the long black robes they had used as costumes. Then a glow began behind his eyes, a look of intense satisfaction, as Professor McGonagall proved she hadn’t lost form in the years since the Marauders’ last prank. If anything, she’d sharpened her tongue further.

“You gave Mr Malfoy quite a fright,” I commented dryly, refraining from tacking on the very un-teacher-like sentiment, _served him right_ , in anything but tone of voice.

Harry was quickly swept away by the already celebrating horde, and that evening at dinner I watched him the way I’d watched James, all those years ago. Always separate, never quite part of the adulation, but basking in its glow, just by knowing that he was my friend, knowing he was happy.

It was an all too brief moment of triumph and joy that dissipated as quickly as Harry’s new Patronus had. That night, Gryffindor Tower was breached by a knife-wielding assailant identified by Ron Weasley as Sirius Black. Dawn found me still awake and brooding by the fire, the hastily conjured protective spells around my rooms singing annoyingly on the edge of my hearing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that's all I wrote, in the end. It makes me sad that I never finished it, but I am genuinely proud of what I did write, and I learnt a lot about writing from it, much like I did from the other longer fics I wrote for Potter fandom. It heavily established my personal head canon for Remus as a character, and was invaluable for how I wrote him in other stories, from short cameos to leading character. He was and remains my favourite character from the original canon, even if I didn't write him as often as other characters.


End file.
